


Dead Little Crow

by seeing_blue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Because nobody needed this fic but I wrote it anyways, Death, Essos, F/M, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Modern Character in Westeros, PoC character, Westeros, modern girl in westeros, more character tags to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 87,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeing_blue/pseuds/seeing_blue
Summary: She doesn't want to be here. She's trapped in a world that always threatens to kill her but never seems to follow through.By divine injustice, she ends up at the Wall in the midst of the Night's Watch. Her disguise as a boy keeps her safe - for now. But both the living and the dead are grasping for her power. Power she doesn't understand. Power that could set the world on a course it was never meant to take.And she can't say anything about it. Literally.This fic is based off the television show far more than the books.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> This is my first Game of Thrones fanfiction. Hopefully it's worthy of being a good Modern Character in Westeros story.

It was too cold, too gloomy. Too…too…

Haunting.

Something hummed within the great wall looming over the creaking wagon she and other recruits were in. It made her stomach clench. Then again, her stomach happened to always be clenched. But was she the only one who felt it? That ancient, frozen power that seeped into everything for miles? It grew stronger with each icy wind that swept through her.

She didn’t want to be here. _Anywhere_ but here. This was one of the worst places to be. Even the people who already lived in hellish parts of the world thought to themselves, “At least I’m not at the Wall.”

Why did she leave Braavos again? It was warm in Braavos. The people smiled more. Not that she smiled with them.

But she had departed from the Free City over a year ago, and now that she was here, amidst the Crows, she would never see it again. Because being at the Wall only meant two things: continue to flee past the boundaries of safety and die, or stay here, fight, and die.

Except dying was an odd concept to her, now. Something almost unattainable. It _should_ have been a standard, shouldn’t it? Even when she tried to force it upon herself, it didn’t grant her what it granted everyone else.

An escape from this world.

The rat-faced man with a scar uglier than hers was staring again. What was his name? She couldn’t remember.

_You just remember him dying._

He was examining her blunt features, the square jaw with too-high cheekbones, the broken nose, and the splotchy pink birth mark spanning across half her face with a lengthy scar stretching over it. He was trying to decide if she was just a dainty boy or a girl in disguise. She hoped that, like the rest of those who questioned her on the way here, he’d guess the former.

The gates to Castle Black opened for the two creaking wagons. It smelled like piss, blood, leather and metal. She used to be nauseated by similar stenches, but had grown used to it over time. That was just how everywhere in this world smelled. And with such cold temperatures, it wasn’t quite as bad.

“Alright! Get out, the lot of you!” a Crow ordered. She stood along with the rest of them and hopped out, legs and back popping from stiffness. They were lined up in a row. The rat-faced man was placed next to her. Two Crows strolled along the line. One asked for their names, looked down at a scroll of paper, then listed their crimes to the other Crow. The one that didn’t speak was a hard man, with eyes set too close together and a permanent scowl.

She imagined them different. Alliser and Slynt. But of course they looked different. And it wasn’t as if she had experience with the other characters. The other people more important than she in the grand scheme of things.

When they came to her, she was ordered to give her name.

She didn’t. They waited impatiently for a few moments before the other one huffed and said, “I know this one. Bramble, Lord Thorne. Says here he’s a mute. A murderer and a mute.”

“Got your tongue cut out, boy?” Lord Thorne questioned. She gave her head a single shake. “Born without a voice?” A nod. He grunted and continued onto the next.

It was too cold. Unnaturally cold. Nothing like the winters back home.

_Home is another world away. Remember that?_

Bramble wished she didn’t have to. She wished—distantly, bitterly wished—that she was home again, instead of having to face what was coming for her.

_How can you prepare for something you have no idea about?_

By the time Bramble and the other recruits had been addressed and outfitted in black, warm clothing, it was already nightfall. She found a corner in the rowdy mess hall and kept her head down as she ate tasteless, hot stew. And when night fell, Bramble stared at the dark ceiling that roofed the recruit barracks, clinging to the only thing she had known for the past three years.

Survival.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

A training sword was put in her hand the next day. Bramble drew it close to herself, remembering the last time she had a similar weapon. The last time she killed.

“You’re the mute, aren’t you?” the ranger she was going to spar with asked. He was taller than her by more than a foot and just _knew_ he was going to squash Bramble. But despite that, there was a gentleness about him underneath his hulking exterior.

_He’s different. Different and familiar. They all are._

Bramble nodded once. “And you never thought to become a Silent Sister?”

The recruits and Crows around the two of them shared a good laugh over the joke.

Bramble glared at the ranger, took a breath, then attacked with such sudden swiftness it caught him off-guard. He only managed to parry two, three times before Bramble sidestepped and mercilessly hit him in the side with the flat of the training sword. He cried out and collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

 _Be careful,_ Bramble reminded herself. _Someone your size shouldn’t be stronger than a full-grown man._

Seeing the big ranger felled only spurred the laughter, but there was no vitriol to it. Some were even cheering. When was the last time she had been part of the laughter?

Bramble’s mouth remained serious. She watched as the ranger stagger upright. “So not a Silent Sister, then,” he smiled with a slight wince. He held his arm out to grasp. After staring at it for a moment, Bramble took it. She felt warmth bleeding through his heavy garments. “The name’s Grenn.”

_Grenn. She was right._

“The lad looks like he can handle himself,” said another man the rest of the Crows had gathered around. He was serious and brooding. Now _he_ was somebody Bramble recognized instantly—even if he wasn’t the spitting image of the actor. Bramble could sense the weight he carried, the dread that there wasn’t enough time. “Give the other recruits a chance to get knocked off their feet.”

Grenn shared another nod with Bramble before she handed off the training sword to another recruit. Her eyes met Jon’s for a brief instant. Fire surged behind him against a dark and snowy storm. Bramble would have been surprised at the revelation, had she not already known just _who_ he was.

Jon’s gaze passed over in less than a second. Then Bramble went back to being cold and standing still.

-

 _“Childish Gambino is probably_ the _greatest artist of the twenty-first century,” her dad declared over the dinner table. “If The Rock runs for president with Donald Glover as his vice president, not only would I vote for them, but with sure knowledge that this grand country could become what our Founding Fathers wanted it to be.”_

_“Okay, honey,” her mother calmly replied, smirking down at her plate as she cut a cooked chicken breast._

_Bramble’s father took another good swig of zinfandel. “I’m telling you, we need to—”_

The sound of several people sitting down forced Bramble to relinquish the memory she vainly tried to keep intact. She looked up from her meal and scowled to hide surprise at the sight of familiar Crows sitting across from her.

“If you keep it up with the sour looks, nobody will want to walk to you,” said the scrawny one with a glint in his eyes. She could hear the actor in him, the singer. It was in her mother’s voice.

“He’s mute, Pyp,” said the other ranger. Bramble recognized him as Eddison, the other ranger beside Jon when they were training. “He can’t talk back anyways.”

“There’s a lot one can show in a face, you know,” Pyp frowned.

“I suppose if I was a mute, I wouldn’t have a bright face,” Grenn contemplated.

“Oh, leave him alone,” the chubby Crow said. That was Sam. She could recognize him not by his stature, but by the pure kindness that laced his words. How had he stayed so kind in a world like this? Bramble hadn’t.

He spoke to Bramble directly. “Forgive them. They don’t know the things they say, sometimes.” He took a bite of his meal. “None of us know your name.”

“Yeah, we wanna know just who it was that knocked Grenn on his ass,” Eddison laughed.

“Me, too,” Grenn agreed.

“Do you know how to write?” Samwell inquired. “Maybe you can put it down so we’ll know.”

Bramble could shake her head and lie. It would keep her safer. But Sam’s earnest eyes and the other’s actual interest in her was too much.

She gave a single nod. Sam grinned and quickly reached down to pull out an extra scroll from within his coat. “You gonna pull a quill and inkpot out your ass?” Eddison questioned. Sam pointedly ignored him and set the parchment and a piece of coal in front of Bramble.

Pushing her stew aside, Bramble picked up the coal. It was heavy and awkward between her fingers. Clumsily pressing the tip down to the paper, she wrote down her name, wondering how long it had been since she’d written anything at all.

Once Bramble was finished, she slid it back to the men so they could read it. “Bramble, eh?” Samwell said aloud.

Edd was the second to say something about it. “You were named after a thorny bush?”

Amusement flickered at the corners of Bramble’s lips. _That’s what Dad always said._

“I think I saw something,” Grenn observed seriously. “Maybe you’re not as dark and deep as Jon after all.”

She returned to an impassive scowl.

“You’re a good fighter,” Jon said. “Who taught you?”

Bramble reluctantly picked up the piece of coal again and wrote:

MYSELF

“Yourself? That’s incredible.” Bramble shrugged up and down. It was a better response than “I was magically and mysteriously bestowed with the skills when I came to this shit world.”

“Where were you from?” Sam continued to press. The unusual amount of attention was starting to make her neck itch.

NOWHERE

There was a brief silence. “Well,” Eddison breathed, “I don’t recall any _Nowhere_ in Westeros. Essos, maybe?”

Again, Bramble felt the corner of her lip crawl upwards for a second or two. “Well,” said Jon with a small smile, “Welcome to the Night’s Watch, Bramble of Nowhere.”

A sort of heat ignited inside her stomach. That desire to belong.

Bramble quickly suffocated it so there was nothing inside but an empty space. Emotions like that would spiral out-of-control and make her _suffer._

But she had to survive here. And in order to survive—in order to hide her true identity—she’d have to get close to _some_ people. These men, maybe? But they were important; Bramble wasn’t.

_You’re from another world. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?_

In most cases—in all cases—it was always the last thing.

Unnerved by the notion of expressing some semblance of humanity, again, Bramble scowled again and hunkered down over her stew, trying to make it clear that she didn’t want to be poked and prodded any more.

The men still upheld their kindness, though, and asked no further questions. They allowed her to listen to their conversations, letting her gather that Jon had just returned from beyond the Wall after infiltrating the approaching wildling army. He wanted to go back and kill the mutineers who had betrayed the Order and killed Lord Commander Mormont.

_That’s where they’re at, here. Great. The wildlings will come, fight, and die now, only to return later to fight and die for sworn enemies._

So much death. Bramble used to want to prevent it, to make people see reason. But nobody listened to someone without a voice. They hadn’t listened before, and they wouldn’t listen here.

Jon needed men to go with him to Craster’s Keep. Eddison and Grenn said they were with him; they had barely escaped with their lives from that place. Jon didn’t ask Bramble to join him. He didn’t even acknowledge her.

But she would go. It was a chance to see what beyond the Wall was like. To see if she could survive out there. Bramble wasn’t going to last long here. Even if she could hide her breasts, her privates, and her period for now, something would slip up. Somebody would see. Bramble was trapped, and the only way to get out was if she continued northward. Because to go back meant…meant running back to the things she fled from.

So when Jon stood up in the mess hall and asked for volunteers to go with him, Bramble silently rose. She was a good fighter; at least the others knew that.

The rat-faced man stood up to volunteer as well. His name, Bramble found, was Locke. She didn’t like him in the show and she didn’t like him in reality. He had a shroud of darkness around his shoulders, with twisted vines crawling up from the bowels of the earth and grasping his heart. Bones jutted from his neck and shoulder, reminding Bramble of just how he was going to die.

_Deserves it, doesn’t he?_

Jon Snow had the flame of a dragon in his breast, yet bore claws and fangs made of ice. The cloak of Lord Commander wrapped around his shoulders, but blood poured from his abdomen before turning to ash. It was still a hair-raising thing to see, even if Bramble knew what it all meant.

Pyp had a thousand faces and voices hiding behind him, whispering and giggling. Death crawled up his feet, ready to catch him when he fell.

Grenn had a bull standing over him, with his steady gait and powerful force. He was strong and gentle, and the memories of a farm still twined around his hands. But death, too, awaited him.

Edd had the cloak of Lord Commander on his shoulders also, ice on his breath, and the hands of the dead grasping his arms.

Sam had the chains of a maester wrapped around his waist, a crown of valor, and ancient texts tucked under his left arm while a sword just as old held with his right hand.

Bramble wished she didn’t have this…Sight. She didn’t understand why it another thing gifted to her when she came to Westeros. It wasn’t as if she _already_ had a pretty clear idea of how things were to play out. So how come she was given such a useless ability in exchange for her voice?

She couldn’t recall what it sounded like, anymore.

“Are you sure you want to go, lad?” Edd asked Bramble when they sat back down and finished up their meal before retiring. “You haven’t even taken the Black; you might die out there.”

“And nobody should want to die beyond the Wall,” Grenn added darkly.

 _I know,_ Bramble wanted to say. _I know more than anyone. And if I should die, I’d gladly have my corpse burned to nothing but ash. That’s all I’ve wanted for a while, now._

The mutineers also killed Mormont. She had liked Mormont, even if she only knew his character from a scripted television series.

But she just looked at Edd for a hard moment, nodded, and ate the rest of her food.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Too soon did the night overwhelm the icy wasteland they were in. Bramble could see the glow of the keep from a ways off, and soon she found herself running right towards it, behind Grenn and Edd. While they screamed war cries into the darkness, Bramble’s own open mouth emitted a faint, scratchy whisper.

Locke had been right; none of the mutineers were prepared, and most of them were slaughtered within the first ten seconds of entering the grounds of the keep. Women—the daughter-wives of Craster—screamed and fled from the carnage.

Bramble killed one man by gutting him, another by slicing at his knee before cleaving her blade into his neck, and the last by cutting one’s face nearly in two. She had lost sight of Locke, but saw a cleared path to the hut.

Grenn and Edd didn’t take notice as Bramble slipped past, blade still in her hand and thunder inside her ears. She approached the hut and, without pausing, pushed the curtain aside and stepped in.

Two people, both around her age, were tied up as prisoners. The girl was strung up while the boy was strapped to a pole. Bramble locked eyes with Jojen and saw that he was engulfed in flames, but his eyes—his eyes were witnessing her life, her death, her destiny.

Bramble’s mute throat dried. She ignored it as best she could and cut Meera of her bonds before cutting his.

Jojen stared up at Bramble in awe. “You’re not from here,” he whispered. “You’re from…” His eyes grew wide in a struggle to understand.

 _I know,_ Bramble mouthed. She glanced over her shoulder, unsure if Locke had been dealt with. Assuming from Bran’s absence and the torn chains formerly attached to the wall, she hoped he had.

“Why is there a dragon latched onto your throat?” Jojen croaked. To answer him, Bramble let out a scratchy whisper. “You want to join us, don’t you? To flee from those who hunt you.”

She glanced away. “The Night King will take you for the power you don’t realize you’ve inherited, yet. Leaving with us does not make you safer. Stay with the Night’s Watch. You will…you will change the course of more than you could imagine with them.”

Something in Bramble crumpled. She wasn’t sure why.

It was a second before she realized her head was shaking. She didn’t want to be at the Night’s Watch, to have her back literally against a wall as those she ran from closed in—

 _No,_ Bramble voicelessly spoke. _Please, no._

“Don’t you understand?” Jojen said firmly. “If you run any further, you’re giving them what they want. They’ve been pushing you here all along, to put you in the hands of the Night King. You need to _stay.”_

Bramble felt the cold more than ever. A shiver ran through her, feeling the stare of eyes from far away.

Was that fear weighing heavy in her stomach?

“Hodor!” Meera suddenly cried out. Bramble spun and saw a hulking, giant of a man standing at the entrance. Another door was behind him, wooden and bursting with the dead as they grasped at him, tore at his flesh and stabbed him with rusted weapons, bit him with decaying teeth.

For the first time in a long time, Bramble’s expression cracked with horror. _Hodor,_ her lips formed. _Hodor._

“Let her pass, Hodor,” Jojen instructed.

“…Her?” Meera repeated.

“A long story,” Jojen said. His face was even sicklier after talking to Bramble. “And one that we will never know about. Go in peace, Bramble. May you find what you’ve lost here.”

Bramble dipped her head to him. He returned the gesture. She brushed past Hodor, eyes narrowing to keep the unwanted grief at bay, and walked back out into the cold night.

Okay. So that hadn’t worked out.

The battle was over by then, and the Crows were collecting the dead. Bramble joined Grenn’s side as they looked down at one of the fallen. It was Locke, with his bones split at the neck and shoulder.

“What in the seven hells could do that to a man?” Grenn asked incredulously.

Bramble looked off into the black past the keep, watching figures using darkness to cover their escape. Her heart ached. Maybe it ached because she didn’t get what she wanted. Maybe it ached because she hadn’t felt something as much as this in a long time.

“I count ten dead mutineers,” Jon spoke.

“Locke said there were eleven of them,” Edd confirmed. His brows furrowed. “Where’s Rast?”

Not a moment after he asked the question did Bramble feel somebody violently consumed by death by a pair of massive jaws. It almost made her jump.

Her hand found Eddison’s shoulder to get his attention. When he looked to her, she pointed a finger just beyond the edge of the keep and grunted.

“Rast?” Edd repeated. “You saw him go off there?”

Bramble kept pointing her finger. “Well, let’s go after him then,” Grenn said, taking a step forward. Bramble grunted again and shook her head.

“What happened to him?” Jon asked her.

She let her hand drop and gnashed her teeth together. They wouldn’t get it, but it didn’t matter. Nothing freaking mattered.

Bramble turned away from confused expressions and walked over to a corpse to clean her blade. She killed so casually, now, and couldn’t bring herself to feel anything even as she wiped fresh blood off on a man that she might have ended.

_Sparkles was buried on a late spring afternoon, in a sheet her mom had wrapped the old dog in. “Everything dies, sweetie,” Bramble’s dad explained as he shoveled dirt on top of Sparkles. “And for something so universal, nobody likes it. But at least Sparkles had a good life. She knew she was loved. We’ll always remember her. That’s what death gives us. Memories.”_

But would anyone remember these mutineers?

Bramble’s dad was wrong. Death didn’t give memories. Death was death. It took and gave nothing back.

As the others rounded up the dead and the women, Bramble looked off into the blackness once more. She could still run. She could make it on her own.

…Could she?

“Jon!” Grenn suddenly said. His friend turned to him, who was looking in the direction of the main path. Bramble and the rest of the men turned their gazes that way, too. Something made from the snow itself trotted through.

Bramble quickly hid her smile as Ghost walked up to Jon. He was nearly as tall as Bramble and blood stained his maw. He was beautifully dangerous.

She squashed the desire to pet him.

“Where in seven hells?” Jon exclaimed, a genuine grin splitting his face. “Come here!” He waved for the dire wolf to meet him, and Ghost did so willingly. Jon crouched down so he was level with the wolf’s head. It whined affectionately as the Crow placed a loving hand behind his ear and said words Bramble couldn’t hear.

She tilted her head and stared at Ghost. Old blood ran through him. Old blood that promised something new.

“What should we do with this lot?” Eddison asked Jon, making him break eye contact with Ghost. He stood and turned his attention to the group of women huddled a few feet off.

“It’s not safe for you here on your own,” he explained to the women. “Mance Rayder has an army heading this way and there’s worse out there than Mance. Come with us to Castle Black. We can find you work. Keep you safe.”

“Meaning all respect, Ser Crow,” one of the older women answered bitterly, “Craster beat us and worse. Your brother Crows beat us and worse. We’ll find our own way.”

Death only crawled at a few of their feet, waiting patiently. Nothing loomed, nothing lurked. How weird in a monstrous place like this.

“You want to stay here? In Craster’s Keep?”

The woman then spat. “Burn it to the ground,” she growled, “and all the dead with it.”

And so it burned. The heat of the fire was the first real warmth Bramble had felt in a long time. The vile magic that coated the air shied away from the flames and its cleansing power. It protected the corpses from being more than just corpses.

What a world she was in.

What a fucking world.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Bramble “took” the Black the day after they returned to Castle Black and assigned to the rangers. It was hard to swear vows when she couldn’t speak, but she meant it more than she thought she would.

Nowhere was safe. Not behind the Wall, not past the Wall. And definitely not at Castle Black. But…Grenn and Pyp and Edd and Sam were kind to her, and Jon was a better man than anyone could portray. Bramble should have stayed away from such important characters; she hadn’t interacted with any since being here. Westeros was big, and Bramble was next to nothing in this place.

Yet these men acted as though they _wanted_ to bring her into the fold. Bramble tried to dissuade them with a bad attitude, but that only made them act friendlier. It was bizarre.

Whatever their intentions were, Bramble knew she was on Jon’s side. She vainly listened as his idea of sealing the tunnel was shut down by superiors. All the while, the wildling army marched to meet them in battle. Even as they returned to the castle, Bramble could feel the army behind them, their feet and their fear making the frozen earth tremble. And behind them, behind the army, there was nothing. Nothing but the winds of winter scratching at her scalp and thousands of icy eyes stabbing into their back.

Death pooled on the floor of the mess hall. Bramble wished she could see something, anything concerning herself. But whenever she looked at her reflection, all she could see was a blunt, scarred face, short black hair, and dark green eyes commonly mistaken for brown. When she was little she wished she were prettier, but now…now she was fortunate. Pretty girls never lasted long in this world. The large birth mark encompassing the entirety of her left eye and washing down to her jawline in splotches would have done the job all on its own. The scar that began at the left corner of her lip and scrawled up to her temple helped even more with the ugliness. It made her look like the Joker. Not that anybody here would appreciate it.

“So?” Sam asked, leaning forward on the table to speak to Bramble amidst the mess hall’s clamor. “You’re one of the Night’s Watch. How does it feel?”

He then hastily pushed forward a piece of parchment and charcoal to write. “You just whipped that out of thin air, didn’t you?” Edd said dryly.

Bramble unrolled the blank parchment and wrote. When she pushed it back to Sam, he read it aloud. “It still feels cold.”

That made them laugh. All except for Jon, who only sat with them. He wasn’t listening to anything they were saying. The boy, Olly, sat next to him, silently eating his stew. The child was surrounded by conflict, by loss, by revenge and fear of revenge.

She remembered when her parents talked about how glad they were when Olly died for betraying Jon. But Bramble just felt bad for him. He was just a boy beaten down by war.

He was just a boy.

“Better get used to it,” Grenn said, bringing Bramble’s dark green eyes back to the Crows. “’Cause it’s not going to get warmer anytime soon.”

Perturbed by Olly’s presence and the wildling army at their throats, Bramble motioned for Sam to give her back the parchment. He did so, and she took to writing. When they realized she was writing out something more than a handful of words, they went back to talking amongst themselves. Mostly about the wildlings. A little about the army of the dead. Nothing else.

Bramble had to wave the piece of parchment out a bit to get Sam’s attention. “Oh! Sorry.” He took it and read. “Why do you have to fight the wildlings? Why not let them in and become allies to fight the army of the dead? If you keep them out, they’ll just become White Walkers. The Wall wasn’t built to keep wildlings out, obviously. It was to keep the dead out. Battles like these will only weaken us. It’s what they want.”

Sam’s voice had grown softer as he read Bramble’s message. The men stilled. Jon left his own thoughts to listen—and to grow grim. Olly’s mouth turned into a frown. “Kill the past. Save the future.”

Six pairs of eyes turned to look at Bramble. She remained unmoving. “It’s not that easy,” Jon eventually spoke. He was looking at her in a different light, now. “They’ve murdered entire villages—they’ll murder us, too, if we don’t defend the Wall. And even if we wanted to, you think Thorne would remotely consider something like that?”

“The wildlings deserve to die,” Olly spoke up.

Bramble snatched the parchment back from Sam, who jumped a little at her actions. Edd, who sat nearest to her, read the response this time. “If the wildlings deserve to die for what they’ve done to us, then we deserve to die for what we’ve done to them. It’s not about deserve, anymore. If everything was about deserve then the world would be empty.” He paused, glanced at Jon, and continued. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

Jon’s dark eyes pierced through Bramble. His face was unreadable, but there was a cloud of conflict weighing on his shoulders. She had, through the others, voiced the same thoughts he was having. Bramble wanted to say more—to say that Ygritte could be saved, that they could avoid war _just this once._

Who was she kidding, though. They couldn’t avoid anything, could they?

She wrote down one last thing before standing up and leaving.

Edd quietly read the final question. “But what is a pack if they’re all dead?”

-

Bramble shook uncontrollably as she curled up in her cold bed. What had she done? What had she done?

 _Don’t go messing things up!_ She yelled to herself, teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut. _What has gotten into you?_

What happened in the mess hall was reckless. And dangerous. And completely and utterly redundant. It’d arouse suspicion, and the next thing Bramble knew she’d be drug out of her bed and put on the chopping block.

Maybe that would be for the best, though. It wasn’t like Bramble had any way of getting back home. She died and her family died, there. Or, at least from what she could remember she had.

After the hundredth uncontrollable shiver despite being under a heap of blankets, Bramble got up, ignored the mass of sleeping men around her, and snuck down to the baths. Not only did the men rarely use it, but the hour was late and the only people up were atop the Wall. Nobody here appreciated bathing. And damn, it showed.

Bramble used a candle to light her way down the corridors and down to the baths. It was, as she suspected, completely vacant. Steam wafted from the medium-sized pool.

She couldn’t help but smile a little. Quickly setting the sconce down, Bramble stripped off the several layers she wore and stepped in. The heat of the water burned her cold toes and fingers, but she only basked in it. A soft sigh rushed out of her.

Finally, warmth.

Bramble sunk further until she was completely submerged. Her shaggy hair tickled the tops of her ears as it floated beneath the surface. She tucked her knees under her chin and intended on holding her breath until her lungs screamed with protest.

If she was going to die when the wildlings attacked, at least she’d be clean—

Grenn and Pyp’s faces flashed in Bramble’s memory. Blood coated their faces, eyes glossed with death. Screams rang in her ears and a fire, hotter than anything she had ever felt in her life, erupted in Bramble’s chest. It paralyzed her and boiled blood.

 ** _Save them,_** a voice—a force—said. **_Change EVERYTHING._**

Bramble’s eyes shot open in the fiery depths which she was trapped. Amidst the black waters stood herself, engulfed in roiling flames.

The illusion spoke with the voice Bramble lost long ago. **_You were meant to change it all. This is the beginning._**

Fire rushed out at Bramble, roaring and raging. As soon as she was struck by it, the invisible bonds around her broke free. Bramble broke through the surface of the water in a thrashing frenzy. She clambered onto the stone floor, feeling unbearably hot and sick. Steam rose from her red skin until she was completely dry.

Bramble rolled over on her back, gasping for cold air’s relief.

_What. The. Fuck?_

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Mole’s Town had been attacked.

Bramble knew what it meant. The wildlings would attack by nightfall. Everyone else knew it, too, even if nobody said it out loud. Few words were spoken to her; they were all still reeling from what she said to them the night before. The only person who would have attempted to strike up conversation with Bramble was Sam, but he was too worried about Gilly and her baby to do much else.

It made Bramble think. What she was in right now was…what, season four in the series? Yeah, that sounded right. It’d been years since she’d seen it even before she landed in Westeros. Her memory was spotty on what occurred in the battle against the wildlings.

Grenn and Pyp died. She remembered that. Whatever inexplicable vision she had was sure to remind. Pyp got an arrow through the throat and Grenn was killed by the giant trying to get through the tunnel.

Ygritte died. Olly shot her with an arrow while Jon watched.

They beat the wildlings off the first night. Jon went to Mance Rayder to “negotiate.” Before he or Mance could do anything, Stannis Baratheon and his army decimated the wildlings.

Tormund Giantsbane lived. Mance Rayder got shot with an arrow before the Red Woman’s flames could take him.

Yikes. Melisandre was coming. Better watch out for her.

Bramble drug her hands down her face and sighed. “What’s gotten into you, now?” Pyp asked her.

She pulled out a parchment and refined charcoal to respond. Relying on Sam for paper quickly got tiresome, so Bramble went to the library and got a bundle of small parchment scrolls to use. Maester Aemon heard her shuffling around for charcoal and asked what she was doing, but when he didn’t hear an answer he simply went, “Ah. You’re the mute. Sam has spoken about you. Take whatever writing materials you may need.” And continued about his business.

Bramble liked him.

Pyp read the reply once Bramble finished. “Want to talk. But I’m mute. That enough for you?”

“Damn,” Edd dryly chuckled. “I guess so.”

“Ey, Bramble, been meaning to ask you a question,” Grenn said. Bramble glanced his way, seeing yet another flash of his death.

“Careful,” Pyp drawled, “The wildlings will have come and gone by the time he finishes it.”

Bramble made a _what?_ motion.

“How’d you get that scar?”

She gave him a flat expression. “Seven hells, Grenn, you don’t just go askin’ people where they got their scars,” Edd said.

“What? Why? I’m just curious! Just like you lot!”

“Yeah, but we’re not stupid enough to say anything,” Pyp said back.

With a shake of her head, Bramble wrote down how she got it. And despite the men getting after Grenn for asking, they all waited eagerly to get an answer.

The parchment with the reply on it was tossed in the middle of them. Pyp was the one to snatch it up. “You really want to know, you twats? I got it because I tried to stop Lannister soldiers from ransacking the farmhouse I was working at. They were accused of being Northern sympathizers. I got my face nearly carved from my skull. The family was butchered and the farmhouse burned down. Took me a while, but I tracked them down and killed them. That’s why I’m here. Because revenge solves everything.”

Bramble smiled a bit at her last statement.

“You killed Lannister soldiers?” Jon asked, interest piqued. Bramble nodded once.

“How do we know you’re not lying?” Edd questioned skeptically.

“It’s true,” Sam put in, finally involving himself in the conversation. He sounded despondent. “I was filing the reports of all the new recruits that came to Castle Black in the library. He was charged with killing six Lannister soldiers.” Sam’s eyes nervously flickered to Bramble. “In various ways.”

“Various ways?” Grenn repeated. Bramble felt herself hunch lower, but waved to Sam to tell them. It’d take forever to write down, anyways.

“He—er, Bramble, well—correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe he gutted one and crushed another’s skull. One got drowned, one had their throat torn out—” Grenn and Edd audibly winced— “One was strung up in an alleyway, had honey slathered on them, and fed to the rats—”

“Shit,” Jon had to comment.

“—And the last was, well, drawn and quartered.”

There was a brief silence before Pyp said, “Well, boys, it looks like we’ve befriended a completely insane bastard. Better not get on his bad side. Otherwise he’ll hang us with our own guts.”

Bramble scribbled down a sentence and flashed it to them so they could all read it. “You _had to get creative?”_ Edd stated incredulously. “Who do you think you are, the bloody Mountain? Maybe you can meet up with him, exchange some ideas and the like.”

Bramble wrote something else down. Jon wanted a turn this time and took it before anyone else could. “They took turns raping a twelve-year-old girl while her parents watched. You tell me if what they got was enough justice.”

There was a small silence. Bramble took the parchment back and drank some of the piss-flavored mulled wine that was quickly growing cold. She shrugged her shoulders and gave them a _well?_ look. “You’re crazy,” said Edd, but it was almost…fondly? A tone that made Bramble still feel welcome.

Bramble nodded in agreement and continued to eat. It got their mind off the imminent danger for a few minutes, at least. She wished she could tell them the wildlings would be here tonight. She wished she could take Sam aside and guarantee that Gilly would make it back.

Another glance at Pyp and Grenn. She didn’t _have_ to save them. In fact, they probably shouldn’t be saved. That would…alter things. Bramble’s dad was a high school science teacher and a geeky guy, so she knew the dangers—and wonders—of time travel and potentially creating parallel dimensions. But the thing was, nobody quite knew what changing something meant to happen would do. Nobody Bramble knew, anyways.

It was Pyp and Grenn, though. Why not take the chance to save them? Why not be _responsible_ for saving them? They didn’t die in the books, did they? She couldn’t remember; she had never read the books, like an unknowing fool.

Shit. Responsibility was a big word Bramble had grown distant from during her time here. And this…this was a big responsibility.

-

It got dark quickly. Bramble decided to take a shift with Pyp guarding the front gate, almost certain that Gilly would eventually show up and demand to be let in. Ser Alliser ordered them to keep it shut, but Ser Alliser was a dickhead. And Bramble didn’t like dickheads.

She kept eyeing Pyp when he wasn’t looking. He was scrawny and though she was taken for a boy a few years younger than he, in reality they were near the same age. About twenty, right? Bramble didn’t keep track of the years too well, but she was seventeen when Westeros became her nightmarish home.

It was almost funny. Bramble went from worrying about graduating high school and what she was going to get her parents for their anniversary to worrying about keeping her life intact and where to get her next meal. What a way to grow up fast.

“You think them wildlings are gonna come tonight?” Pyp asked her as he nervously glanced out the gate’s barred window. Bramble nodded and Pyp made a noise. “Really?” He then gave a slight shake of his head. “I guess it’s not a big surprise. Jon said—”

“Help! Let me in!”

Pyp and Bramble sharply turned their heads and opened the slate to the entrance’s grated window. A figure was running with something bundled in their arms. When they came close enough to the firelight, Bramble saw a young woman, perhaps a bit younger than she, dirty and shaking and gasping for air. She carried a fussing baby who hadn’t liked being jostled for miles.

“Seven hells!” Pyp exclaimed. “Gilly?”

“You have to let me in!” Gilly cried. “They’re coming! The wildlings are coming, I saw ‘em!”

“I—I can’t! We’re under strict orders to not open the gate!”

 _“Please._ Where’s Sam? You need to let me in! I need to see Sam!”

“I’m sorry, but I—Bramble, what’re you doing?”

She gave him a look that said, _Opening the gate. What else does it look like?_

“But the Lord Commander!”

Bramble cracked the gate wide enough for Gilly and her baby to slip through before soundly shutting it. She then made a rude gesture concerning Ser Alliser. Pyp opened and closed his mouth, but never got a response out because Sam exclaimed, “Gilly!” from just outside the library’s walkway.

“Sam!”

Bramble watched as the portly Crow raced down the stairs as fast as he could to see Gilly. They embraced as best they could with a now-crying baby in her arms. “Are you alright?” Sam asked frantically. He looked down at the babe and tenderly touched his cheek. “Are you alright?” He paused. “Of course you are, my brave little fella.”

Gilly took in a couple of terrified breaths. “It was _horrible,_ Sam.”

“I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know until I got back—”

“Don’t let them send me away, Sam.” Gilly began bouncing her child to calm him down.

“Never.”

“I know there’s no women allowed—”

“Anyone who tries to throw you out will be having words with me,” Sam promised. “From now on, wherever you go, I go, too.”

The sweet moment between the two was cut off by a distinct horn blowing two times. The four of them turned their gazes to the top of the wall. Bramble’s stomach twisted.

She moved forward and placed her hands on Sam and Gilly’s backs to push them to the castle. When Sam looked back to her, she only mouthed, _go._ He nodded once and ushered Gilly to somewhere safe.

Bramble turned back to Pyp. He had become very, very pale. The horn blew twice again. She strode back to the steward and grasped him by a shoulder. His eyes reluctantly tore away from the Wall. “They’re here,” Pyp whispered. Bramble’s lips pursed into a thin line, stretching her scar. She could hear the castle burst into action. Ser Alliser, who was making his way to the lift, shouted for her to get to the Wall with the rest of the rangers.

A glance at Pyp’s feet showed death waiting to catch him. “I have a feeling,” he suddenly whispered, “that I’m going to die tonight.”

_Dare you risk defying death?_

Bramble moved her hand to the back of Pyp’s neck and firmly drew him close to her. Then she gave just as firm shake of her head.

“Hey! Bramble!” Edd yelled. “Come on!”

Before departing, Bramble release her grip on Pyp and lightly punched him in the chest. And the she gave a rare, small smirk.

Pyp’s expression changed a little. Like he saw something different in her.

Damnit. Of course Pyp saw something different. Saw that hint of a woman when she smiled.

But that was something to worry about after the battle was won. Bramble got rid of her smile, turned, and jogged to catch up with Edd and Grenn.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

It was bitingly cold on top of the Wall. Northern wind blasted right through Bramble’s bones and threatened to pull out the black hair she’d been meaning to shear off.

The sight before them was even more chilling.

The bonfire blazing across the great forest was enormous. The wildling army coming from the forest was bigger. Their war cries were so loud that it could be heard from where Bramble stood. Giants walked among men, and among the giants were mammoths. Stretched underneath all of them was death, death, death.

Bramble looked to both sides of her. The same darkness stretched across the icy ground on which the Crows walked.

She nocked a flaming arrow in her bow upon Ser Alliser’s commands. She hadn’t used a bow that much, but figured she’d be good at it, anyways. Bramble found upon killing her first person in Westeros that she was pretty good at fighting. Didn’t matter the weapon or the person. She just _could_. It was a gift weirder than the Sight she bore. And just as dangerous.

Beside her, Grenn fumbled and let a barrel plummet hundreds of feet below. There was a tense silence on the Wall as Grenn watched the falling barrel despairingly. It was almost funny.

“I said nock and hold, you cunts!” Alliser shouted. “Does nock mean draw?”

“No sir!”

“Does fucking hold mean fucking drop?”

“No sir!”

“Are you all prepared to die here tonight?”

“No sir!”

“That’s very good to hear! Draw!” Bramble aimed her bow into the smoky night sky.

Another horn blasted in the distance. She half-turned to look at the castle below and felt a tug, a sharp prompting that said, _Go down. Now._

Most of the men defending the front gate were stewards and builders. Pyp and Sam. Pyp.

_You’ve had people dear to you die here, too. What makes Pyp and Grenn any different? Everyone dies._

“They’re attacking the southern gate!” Bramble heard Janos tell Alliser.

“Now?” She shifted slightly to watch the exchange between them. “I’m going down there,” Alliser said after a pause. “Brother Slynt, you have command of the Wall.”

“What?” Jon and Slynt both regarded one another with shock.

Alliser began striding away, abruptly stopped, turned, and bellowed, “What are you fucking waiting for? Loose!”

Bramble unleashed the arrow. She didn’t wait to watch it fall. Dropping her bow, she quickly raced to catch up with Alliser and the Crows he’d gathered to defend the front gate. He didn’t notice her presence, and she easily blended in with the brothers.

There was a small tremble to her knees from the adrenaline. Was she really going to do this? Was she going to change what shouldn’t be changed?

A feeling of fire burned in Bramble’s chest. It was hardly comparable to the one that raged inside her that night in the baths, but enough that she couldn’t brush it off as heartburn.

_“You feel that stuff inside you?” Bramble’s dad asked, pointing a finger to her chest. She nodded and shifted her feet on wet tiles. The familiar smell of chlorine filled her nose. Her hair felt like it was falling out of her chap, so she adjusted it while her dad continued to speak. “That’s a winner’s fire. Means that you just don’t want to swim—you want to swim the fastest, the hardest, and show yourself that all you did to get to this point was worth it. It makes you nervous, but that’s a good thing. Let it fuel you, not freeze you._

_“Because if you fail, at least you know you tried. You didn’t freeze.”_

Bramble found that her hand had gone to her breast. Time stilled and suddenly, so _suddenly,_ she missed her dad. She missed his laugh and his jokes and his love.

Tears burned Bramble’s eyes as much as the fire inside her chest. She would never see her parents again. She didn’t have to see their death, but she knew their lives ended in the plane crash along with Bramble’s. Only unlike them, she came here instead. To a place that nobody in their right mind would ever dream of visiting.

 _This isn’t a dream,_ Bramble said to herself for the thousandth time. The lift stopped and the doors to the ground level opened. _Not to me, not to them._

Bramble couldn’t change the fact that her parents died. She couldn’t change the fact that she was here. She couldn’t even _save_ most of the lives tonight.

But she could save at least two.

She asked herself in the past if she even dared to do what she was about to do.

The answer was yes. She did _dare._

Bramble slipped past Alliser and the other Crows, not bothering to listen to any speech he had to rally the men. She raced to the stairs and bounded up them, feet feeling light and fast. Already the sounds of wildlings reaching the top of the gate’s fortifications could be heard.

With sword unsheathed, Bramble weaved her way to the southernmost part where Sam and Pyp were. In the dim firelight she spotted wildlings engaging in combat with the Crows. Among them was a particularly vicious fighter who chopped down every single man who dared get in his way.

Bramble didn’t need to recognize him to know who he was. Death was delivered with each swing of his axe.

Tormund Giantsbane.

Fuck.

Fortunately, Bramble spotted the two figures she was searching for. Sam and Pyp were directly in Tormund’s path, wholly unprepared to fight such a man. Pyp was fumbling with his crossbow and Sam held his sword in front of him as best he could.

Bramble grabbed the backs of their collars and hauled them off to the side with the strength she normally hid. Man, if only she’d been this strong when she swam. She could probably punch all the water out of the pool.

“What the—” Pyp started, but upon seeing Bramble his sentence cut off. She angrily motioned for them to run to the eastern ramparts. Seeing the look on her face told them it was better not to argue.

Bramble faced Tormund. He flashed a crazed grinned at her and rushed forward, giant axe in hand. She doubted she could beat him; her skills were good, but they weren’t _that_ good. Not compared to his.

So Bramble did the second best thing to buy the Crows more time to get out of the vicinity. She dropped her sword just as Tormund swung and stepped towards him so she wouldn’t be in the axe’s path. She threw her hands up and grabbed the shaft to stop it mid-swing. Tormund grunted in surprise. It was satisfying to see confusion cloud his raging eyes. Bramble shot him a wicked glance before hauling him over her shoulder and throwing the wildling right through the wooden sides of the ramparts. He crashed onto the slanted rooftop below.

There was too much chaos in the courtyard for anyone to notice, and all the Crows on the current section of the ramparts were freaking dead. Excitement coursed through Bramble from being able to use something that so desperately wanted to be exercised.

She picked up her sword and dashed off to find Sam and Pyp again. By now the contingent of wildlings had knocked down the front gate and were engaging in combat with the small number of brothers defending the castle and not the Wall.

A couple wildlings got in Bramble’s way, but she cut them down without missing a beat. The fire within grew hotter. The death around her grew deeper.

Sam and Pyp were on the ramparts she pointed at them to go to. As Bramble ascended the stairs, she could see Pyp exposing himself with each bolt he fired from his crossbow. Death shrouded him almost completely.

Just as she reached the top of the ramparts, Pyp fired on a wildling and made a direct hit. He crouched back down to tell Sam the good news. Neither immediately saw Bramble as she ran at them, silently screaming Pyp’s name.

She was going to be too late.

Pyp reloaded his crossbow and took a breath. Right before he went up to shoot, he spotted Bramble racing towards them. He returned the smirk she had given him earlier and moved to aim again. Death was so heavy on his shoulders it was a wonder he couldn’t feel it.

Fear clutched Bramble’s heart, tempting her to give up.

_Let it fuel you. Don’t let it freeze you._

_Because if you fail, at least you know you tried. You didn’t freeze._

Bramble leapt at Pyp and crashed into him, a soundless shout pouring from her dry lips. Above them a white-fledged arrow flew past and embedded itself into the wall behind them.

Death evaporated in an instant. Bramble rolled off of Pyp and slammed him against the wooden protection they crouched behind. Her head peeked over just enough so she could see who had fired.

On the other end of the ramparts was Ygritte. Kissed by fire. Pierced by death.

Pyp was shaking uncontrollably. He stared at the arrow meant for him just a few feet away. “You’re okay,” Sam comforted, “you’re okay.”

Bramble examined him, trying to see if death would return and make up for what she kept it from accomplishing. But Pyp remained clean and untainted. As if death had never been grasping him in the first place. The world didn’t shatter, dimensions didn’t split. Pyp was still Pyp, Sam was still Sam, and Bramble was still Bramble.

Well. Whatever was left of Bramble.

She pounded her fist against his chest and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks,” Pyp whispered. Bramble gave him back his crossbow and got to her feet. Ygritte was no longer in the same position and wildlings flooded the courtyard, chopping down her brothers like nothing. Tormund was still at it, she could see, having survived the throw.

She had to get back down there. More importantly, she had to get to Grenn. Bramble couldn’t see him anywhere and the tunnel still looked unprotected. A little time to spare, then.

“Bramble,” Sam called as she began to leave. “Be safe, please.”

He meant it.

Something stirred. It wasn’t the fire; no, that had faded as soon as the arrow missed Pyp. It was familiar—familial.

These were her brothers. How was it possible that a bond had formed so quickly? Bramble only ever had her parents. Sibling love was something she never experienced.

So this was what it felt like. Maybe not completely identical, but it was a start.

With a bloodied sword in hand, Bramble propelled herself off the ramparts and rammed her blade into an unaware wildling below. She rolled, feeling her sword leave the now-lifeless body, and got back up on her feet. And she just _had_ to look back and see if Pyp and Sam saw that.

They had. Bramble could see their wide eyes peeking over the ramparts.

 _Such a show-off,_ Bramble thought to herself as she engaged in combat with another wildling. _Don’t take the brother thing too literally._

There was a cry off to the west side. “Ser Alliser is injured! Quick! Get him to safety!”

At the same time the lift clanged at the bottom. Grenn and a few other Crows poured out and made a beeline to the tunnel, chopping down wildlings that got in their way.

Bramble charged after them, distantly hearing Alliser yelling at the top of his lungs, “Hold the fucking gate!”

Pyp’s death was caused by a simple arrow. Easily avoidable. How was Bramble going to save Grenn from a giant?

The carnage in the courtyard wasn’t for the faint of stomach. Bodies and body parts were strewn everywhere; Bramble had to jump over one with every other step. _Why hadn’t she thought of saving these men, too?_ She knew these men. Some of them were even likeable.

But Bramble couldn’t think of that now. She skirted the edge of the courtyard, passing the lift and spotting Olly cowering behind the lift’s mechanism. _Keep going,_ she told herself. The rest of her wouldn’t listen, though, and quickly raided a body for bows and a half-quiver of arrows. One of the arrows was destined to kill Ygritte. Telling exactly which one it might have been was nearly impossible; multiple tips were coated with indiscriminate death.

Olly jumped when Bramble neared, but upon recognizing her he returned to frozen fear. She crouched, uncaring of the war around them for a few seconds, and stretched out the bow and arrows. The bow was too big for a boy his size, but it’d have to do.

“I—I can’t,” Olly gasped through his tears. Bramble only pushed the weapon further until he was forced to grab it.

 _You have to,_ Bramble mouthed. Then she reached out a bloody hand and ruffled his hair before moving it down to his chest and punching it. _Be brave._ She tried to move her lips as clearly as possible so he’d understand.

Olly nodded once. Bramble stood and locked her eyes on the tunnel. Grenn and the brothers has barely entered, the light of their torches casting a red glow on the inner walls. Death followed them.

And Bramble followed Death.

She quickly caught up to them. The tunnel gate groaned in protest as it was hefted up by the giant hell-bent on getting in. Bramble’s nerves started to spike. This was a _giant._ There was no way around it. Could she punch it hard enough to break a leg? But the other Crows would plainly see. She had risked revealing her abilities with Tormund already; doing something even grander meant trouble.

Grenn wouldn’t just flee, either. He took his duty as seriously as the rest of them. He’d probably try to kill Bramble before she got close to dragging him out of the tunnel.

So there was basically no plan. Just great.

“How are we going to stop that thing?” Cooper asked Grenn. Cooper had always been friendly towards Bramble. Actually, come to think of it, all these men had. They were brothers, after all.

Still, was she only supposed to save Grenn?

“We’ve put twenty arrows in it already!” Donnel Hill exclaimed. Bramble pulled to a stop, unnoticed by the Crows preoccupied with the dilemma of stopping a giant.

“Doesn’t matter! We hold the gate,” Grenn ordered.

“Snow’s not the Lord Commander—”

“We hold the gate!”

Bramble watched in awe and terror as the giant hefted the gate up, held it with his shoulder, and shoved his way in. The sound of swords being drawn echoed in the tunnel.

“Mother save me, Father save me—” Cooper began to chant.

“There are no gods down here,” Grenn snapped. “It’s the six of us, you hear me!”

The giant let the tunnel fall with a crash behind him, leaving only a thinly-barred portcullis between them. Cooper started to hastily back away, but Grenn grabbed his collar and pulled him back. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins,” he spoke. “It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.”

The ground shook as the giant began to charge at the porticullis. Grenn continued to recite the oath, brothers joining him as they said their final words. “I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls!” Grenn drew his sword and looked back at his brothers. He finally noticed Bramble standing in the back and almost grinned. As if he wouldn’t mind dying alongside her.

Grenn didn’t stop speaking the vows and turned back to face the giant head-on. “I am the shield that guards the realms of men!” The giant bellowed an unholy roar. Bramble gripped the hilt of her sword with both hands and bared her teeth like a challenged animal. “I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come!”

Their bellows were unheard over the deafening screech as the giant crumped the secondary gate and yanked it off its hinges. The brothers scrambled back so they could avoid being crushed by the gate and formed a tight circle. One of the brothers pulled out his axe and threw it at the giant, wetly embedding it in its shoulder. The giant hardly even noticed.

Donnell and Grenn attacked from either sides, chopping at the giant with all their strength. A mighty hand swept at them, missing Grenn but catching Donnell square in the chest. He slammed against the tunnel wall and died instantly.

Bramble glanced down at the ground. Inky death seemed to run for miles, catching brothers as, one by one, they fell.

What if Grenn couldn’t be saved, no matter hard she tried?

_Don’t think about it. Just act._

The giant was turned on Bramble, distracted by Grenn and Cooper. She gripped her sword and rammed it into the back of its meaty leg. He inhumanly roared and swung his arm around to crush her. Bramble narrowly dove out of the way and rolled back to her feet to keep up the fight.

The fire in her chest had returned with a vengeance. It didn’t build like it had with Pyp; all of a sudden it was consuming her insides. One look at Grenn told her that death was mere moments away from catching him. Grenn, the bull. Grenn, who showed Bramble kindness when she wanted none. Grenn, who chose to uphold his duty to the very end.

Bramble watched as Cooper gave up his life sinking his sword into the giant’s belly and delivering a substantial blow. He was then picked up, crushed, and thrown to the ground. A little part of Bramble’s heart was crushed, too.

Cooper’s death left just Bramble and Grenn to the giant. Grenn raced to Bramble and they held their swords side-by-side. Death cloaked his shoulders, just as it did Pyp’s. The giant also had tendrils of blackness wrapped along his legs and waist. A few strands crawled into the stomach wound Cooper left.

Grenn charged at the giant just as a fist was brought down to smash him, screaming “Fuck you!” as his final words. Bramble’s chest threatened to explode but there was no way, _no way_ she could save Grenn—not without revealing her monstrous powers.

_Stop being selfish and **save him!**_

Bramble roughly shoved Grenn out of the way and let her sword drop. She threw both hands out and caught the giant’s fist intended for the other Crow.

The frozen ground _cracked_ from the sudden and intense pressure as two forces collided. One of Bramble’s knees slammed down and she scratchily cried out as the fire erupted and burned away everything inside her—

_Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg was his given name. The wildlings called him Mag the Mighty—_

_—Hunting for food to feed his people, a chief should not be out on the frozen plains but his people’s survival came before—_

_—His son died in his arms, blood pumping from his neck. He said “father” before the sightless shroud blanketed over him. The world no longer mattered, no longer existed. Only grief—_

_—More leaving and few returning. They speak of blue eyes and he remembered the tales, the whispers. The war against the undead. His grandfather fought alongside the fae and those who called themselves men—_

_—Mance Rayder promised safety across the Wall, where men ran amok like fleas on the back of a dog. There was little chance of safety there. But there was no safety in his homeland, anymore. And the wildling army was large. Perhaps—_

—The laughter of her father and mother as they sat around the dinner table—

—Looking out the window of the plane as it dove down to the great blue ocean, screams filling Bramble’s too-pressured ears, holding the hand of her mom as they fell—

—Dornish soldiers showing kindness and wrapping a blanket around Bramble as she failed to comprehend what had just happened and terrified because she couldn’t speak—

—Burying the family killed by Lannister soldiers, working through the nearly unbearable pain from the gash on her face, vowing brutal revenge—

Bramble fought the flames and pushed the curtains of fire aside to show Mag the Mighty what he needed to see, not an exchange of glimpses of memories. What she should actually _show_ him.

Because her question had been answered. She _could_ save others besides Grenn and Pyp. But it wasn’t just about the Crows. It had never been just about the Crows.

While their connection lasted another half-second, Bramble displayed clips of what she remembered from the damn show. Stannis’ army coming and demolishing the wildling army in a matter of moments. Mance Rayder being put to the stake. Jon Snow clasping hands with Tormund in an agreement to ally with the wildlings for the coming war.

And she showed him Hardhome. Over and over again, as much as she could before their connection was lost. The Night King, the army of the dead, the boats that got wildings to safety, Wun Wun, Jon killing the wight.

The Night King again. The blue eyes. The dreadful quiet of an army with hundreds of thousands of soldiers being raised.

Mag Mar slowly lifted his fist off of Bramble. She realized her nose was bleeding profusely, staining lips with blood. Weakness coursed through every vein. The fire had burned away most of her strength.

“Truth?” Mag stated. His tongue struggled to grasp the language of man, but Bramble understood it nonetheless. She dipped her head in a nod, too tired to stand and too tired to hope that he would believe what he saw.

Grenn, who had gotten to his feet by now, hesitantly stood beside Bramble and brandished his sword. She grabbed his ankle with shaking fingers in an effort to stop him from trying to kill Mag.

Death, however, was nowhere to be seen. The tendrils that once entrapped Mag were now fading. Only a few clutched at his wound, but even those were faint.

Mag and Bramble stared at each other for several seconds. Then, rubbing his protruding brow, Mag turned and heavily walked back to the tunnel. Bramble motioned for Grenn to help her get up.

“What the fuck is going on…?” he whispered as he hooked his arm under hers and lifted. Bramble wavered, breathed, and felt feeling return to her legs and hands. Limping, she followed Mag to the gate. He wouldn’t be strong enough to lift it himself. Not as if Bramble had a ton of strength remaining, but together maybe they might have a chance.

He didn’t say anything when he saw her dig fingers between the steel grates and start to lift. He only did the same. It took them a while, but they managed to get it high enough for Mag to prop his shoulder underneath and get through. Bramble stepped back when he neared the other side and watched the gate come crashing back down.

She just…stood there for a few moments. Taking everything in. Her bleeding nose had slowed to a sticky trickle. It was warm on her skin.

With heavy feet Bramble turned around and started limping back. Everything hurt so much that it was amusing.

Grenn was waiting in a stupefied state, watching Bramble do the ol’ Bramble Shamble. It was what her dad had dubbed the way she always walked in the morning. Now wasn’t so different. Bramble felt half-dead.

She passed the spot where the force of Mag Mar’s blow made her put a dent in the ground. Grenn was standing near it, sword limply hanging at his side. “What…how…what did you…” he sputtered. Bramble wearily picked her own sword up and sheathed it. Keeping Mag and Grenn alive was all well and good, but the bodies of her brothers still littered the tunnel.

Grenn finally found his voice. “You need to tell me how you did that!” he said loudly. The tone he used suggested that he was trying to be angry.

Bramble gave him a look, both eyebrows raising in challenge. He immediately deflated. “You can’t blame me! What I just saw…what I _think_ I just saw…”

With a sigh, she knelt down and pulled out a roll of parchment and charcoal. Her gloved fingers made it hard to write and the parchment quickly got wet from the ground, but the message was still readable.

Grenn took it and read aloud. He stumbled over the words and was slow to speak. “I…I need you t-to, uh, I need you to k…keep this a sec—secret. No one…can know. Please.” He lifted his gaze to Bramble. “Are you serious? I can’t keep something like this from them.” Grenn took a step forward and Bramble resisted reacting. “You just—you just _stopped_ a giant! And you just let him walk away! Helped him get out, even. I can’t explain this!”

Bramble snatched away the parchment, irritated. She messily wrote a response. Grenn snatched it back, read it in his head, looked at Bramble, read it again, and repeated incredulously, _“Then don’t?”_

She shrugged, wiped her bloodied face with the back of her hand, and brushed past Grenn. He made a few noises before angrily sighing and joining her. “You’re an insane bastard. You know that, right?”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“He’s walking right to his death,” Edd muttered bitterly as he and Bramble watched a single black figure stride across the barren land between the Wall and the forest. “That mad fucker.”

Bramble could already hear the pounding of hooves and taste the promise of slaughter. Stannis’ army would be upon them soon. She felt some pity for the wildlings; they had no way of knowing what was coming.

_And can you save them from something much worse?_

“Heard you and Grenn were the ones to chase that giant out of the tunnel,” Edd mentioned. “Saw it running back to the army with the rest of ‘em.” He turned to Bramble. “How’d you do it? Grenn just said you hacked at it enough until it couldn’t fight anymore. But that giant looked like it was ready to die trying to get in the tunnel.”

Bramble just shrugged and patted the spot where she kept her parchment and charcoal. “Lemme guess,” Edd said sarcastically, “It’d take too long to write down?”

Bramble smirked and nodded.

“Also heard that you saved Pyp from a wildling arrow,” Edd went on.

Another, more somber nod.

“For somebody who tries their hardest to not care, seems like you don’t really do all that well at it.” This time Edd was smirking. Bramble snorted.

They didn’t have much conversation after. Not only because Edd had to do all the talking, but because neither of them could stave off the worry that Jon wouldn’t make it back. Bramble _knew_ he’d return…except that didn’t make it any less tense.

She couldn’t help but glance at the ground below. It was a dizzying long way down. _Wonder what would happen if you jumped,_ she thought. _Test the limits of your strength. Or die trying._

It was the only thought about dying Bramble had in a while. Strange. She was so concerned about keeping the others alive she forgot her detached wish for the end.

But she couldn’t get too comfortable. They were coming. Those with the inky figures and blinked in and out of existence. They watched Bramble in her dreams, and no matter where she ran they followed. Whatever their goals were, Jojen made it clear that so far, Bramble had gone exactly where they wanted her to.

She was waiting for the day when she’d feel the sickness they brought with them. That darkness. Only this time she couldn’t run.

Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?

“Oh,” Edd breathed, interrupting Bramble’s grim thoughts, “light of the fucking seven.”

She looked on in amazement as a vast army entirely on horseback thunderously swept in on both sides of the forest. Bramble had never seen…never _thought_ she’d see an army of this size in her life. Sure, the wildlings were great in number, but they didn’t have formation or such brutal unification.

The dark haze of death buzzed atop the forest like a swarm of flies. It made Bramble grateful that she was spared from seeing such mass slaughter, just this once. If she lived any longer she knew she would.

“Who…which army is it?” Edd questioned the other Crows on the Wall who had gathered to watch the miraculous spectacle. “I can’t see the flag.”

None of the men could answer, and Bramble didn’t want to make the effort to write Stannis’ name down anywhere. They’d know who it was soon enough.

She heard the screams from where she stood and, eventually, silence. The bulk of the wildlings were seen running from the northern end of the forest line. While the brothers around her cheered in victory, Bramble stayed quiet. If they saw the way she witnessed death, they wouldn’t cheer either.

The battle was over. For now.

The Red Woman was coming. Melisandre. Bramble didn’t have to have any sort of Sight to know she meant a heap of trouble.

And…oh.

Oh. Shireen.

Bramble’s nose began bleeding as if the thought spurred it on. _No._ There was absolutely no _way_ of saving the little princess from the flames. She died outside of Castle Black, surrounded by an entire army, Melisandre and her parents.

An image of Ser Davos flashed in her mind. _No._ That was just something Bramble couldn’t change.

_Couldn’t, or too afraid to?_

She angrily wiped away the blood trickling from her nose and walked back to the lift. If she had been sent here to save every fucking person that died in a television show—

_But this isn’t a television show! This is **real.**_

_Shireen is real. A real, little girl loved by all._

_Come on. You **have** to. _

Why was Bramble being so obstinate about saving someone? Wasn’t that supposed to be a great thing to do? She saved Pyp and Grenn and Mag; why were they different?

But she already knew the answer. Because if Bramble continued on this path, she’d be turning away from solely surviving. She’d be starting to live. To love. To feel that terrible, horrible pain of humanity.

Bramble tossed her head back and sighed the loudest sigh she could muster on her way down to the castle.

_Guess if you die trying you can be done with it all,_ she dryly thought.

Everyone clustered around the bottom of the lift to hear word of the sudden commotion, but upon seeing the mute they all groaned and continued waiting for somebody who could speak. Bramble shoved her way past them, only to be stopped by Sam, Olly, Pyp and Grenn.

“What’s happening out there?” Pyp eagerly asked. Bramble gave them a look that clearly meant _piss off._

“Come on, write it down,” Grenn pushed. He eyed her bloody nose.

It was the first time they had spoken since leaving the tunnel together. She was mildly surprised—and yet at the same time not—that he had kept what he saw a secret. Bramble figured that since he couldn’t completely understand what he saw he’d have little choice but to keep quiet. Maybe he just blocked it out of his mind entirely.

With an eye roll, Bramble took out her writing tools and spun Pyp around to use his back as something to write on. When she finished, she whirled him back and pushed the parchment in his hand. “Stannis Baratheon?” Pyp questioned aloud. He looked up at Bramble. “Seriously? His entire army?”

“So that’s it? The army is gone?” Grenn followed up.

“And Jon?” Sam asked worriedly. “Do you know if he’s okay?”

Bramble shrugged and took the parchment back. “What was it like?” Olly said. “Did you see them kill all the wildlings?” There was an eagerness in his eyes that worried Bramble.

She shook her head. “You get a nose bleed?” Sam prompted. He was always so genuinely concerned. “You should go see the Maester about it. A lot of men get them from the cold weather.”

It was impossible to not glance at Grenn and see his reaction. He just looked confused. And a little nervous.

“Or he just bashed his head into the wall,” Pyp grinned. “Have to channel that craziness somehow.”

Bramble feigned coming after Pyp. He immediately jumped back, grin gone. It made the others laugh, herself included.

Pyp saw it again. That difference. He was more observant than the rest of them. Ugliness could only go so far.

The horn blew once, directing all their attention to the tunnel. Soon after Jon strode through, blood spattered on his face but otherwise unharmed. Bramble was forgotten as everyone rushed to him, putting off their duties for just a little while longer to hear what occurred.

Their distraction was used to sneak off to the library to retrieve more parchment. Maester Aemon was nowhere to be seen, so she took it upon herself to snatch up more blank scrolls and stashed them in an inner pocket.

As soon as she turned around from one of the writing desks, she saw Gilly and her baby sitting quietly by a table near the fireplace. They had been so quiet she hadn’t even noticed their presence.

_She’s probably afraid of the Crows. All alone without Sam._

Bramble smiled, but it felt awkward on her face. Gilly only held little Sam closer to her.

In an attempt to save the situation, she motioned to little Sam and pinched at her own cheeks. Gilly appeared confused for a moment but eventually said, “You think he has chubby cheeks?”

Bramble nodded. “You’re the one who let me in through the gate last night, didn’t you?” Had it only been last night? Seemed like days ago. “Sam said you’re a…a mute. I don’t know what that means.”

She neared a few steps closer and formed words with her mouth. Gilly’s eyes widened in understanding. “You can’t talk, can you?”

Another nod. “Well,” said Gilly, shifting little Sam in her arms, “thank you.”

An idea came to Bramble. She motioned for Gilly to follow her. “Oh, no,” she started to say, “Sam told me to stay here. It’s safe here.”

To assure Gilly, Bramble patted the pommel of her sword. She smiled again and repeated the gesture. Reluctantly, Gilly stood and followed her out of the library. Instead of taking the corridor that led outdoors, she took the turn to the barracks and went down the two flight of narrow stairs. Bramble had to light a torch to see the way. She hoped Gilly wouldn’t think she was trying to do something sinister to her.

They came to the vacant baths. Bramble lit a couple of other torches on the wall and turned to Gilly.

She looked at the pool of steaming water in amazement. Bramble motioned for her to use it. It sucked a little that there weren’t any towels available, but Gilly probably wouldn’t mind.

“I—this is…am I allowed to use this?” Gilly asked uncertainly. Bramble nodded. “But I’m a wildling.”

_Water is water,_ Bramble wanted to say back. _Doesn’t matter who sits in it._

But all she could do was make assuring gestures that everything was alright. And, as best she could, she tried to wordlessly tell Gilly that she’d be outside keeping guard while she bathed.

Gilly’s face turned serious. “If you’re…if you’re going to try anything I’ll scream. I have a knife.”

And there it was.

Bramble furiously shook her head and backtracked until she was through the entryway. Then she promptly closed the door behind her.  

Men were pigs. And Bramble had to be one of them.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

“They came to us from White Harbor, and Barrowton, from Fair Market and King’s Landing. From north and south, from east and west. They died protecting men, women and children who will never know their names. It is for us to remember them. Our brothers we shall never see their likes again.”

“And now their watch is ended.” Bramble mouthed the words while the others spoke it for her.

“And now their watch is ended,” Maester Aemon concluded.

Bramble watched flames consume her brothers and smoke sink into her lungs. She stood between Pyp and Grenn as they, too, looked onward at the ceremony. Forty-eight died last night instead of fifty. Instead of them being among the corpses they were beside her, breathing and shivering from the cold.

It was a small victory.

Princess Shireen and her mother stood with soldiers on the small balcony behind Bramble. Ser Davos and Stannis Baratheon were above them on the ramparts. She hadn’t gotten a good look at them, yet, but she knew who they were.

And on the other side of the pyre was Melisandre.

Bramble couldn’t help but look at her. The mysterious Red Woman. All the Sight showed her were ancient, unending flames. The red stone set in the golden choker she wore emanated a deep, unnerving glow that made Bramble’s eyes hurt if she gazed upon it for too long.

A small sniff from Olly drew her attention. Bramble cast a sidelong glance at the boy and saw a line of tears running down his dirty face.

Her heart felt that aching twist she tried so hard to avoid. He had lost more of his family to the wildlings. Had he even had time to grieve for the parents so violently ripped away from him?

Bramble knew she hadn’t. She could still feel it, stifled and suppressed in a small corner of her heart. If she touched more than the little bit she did the night before, it’d be hard keeping everything back.

Disregarding the manly code of not touching other men here, Bramble reached past Grenn and grabbed Olly’s cloak. He didn’t fight as she pulled him to her side and put an arm around his shoulders. Olly turned his head slightly inward towards her and let his body quietly shake. Bramble squeezed him tighter. For once she didn’t care about the stares. Edd had been right; for somebody who didn’t make it seem like she didn’t give a damn, she was poor in executing it.

Forget the Red Woman being dangerous. Bramble was a big enough danger to herself.

When the fire ended and there was nothing but ash and the remains of a pyre, Bramble set to work. There wasn’t much to do for the rangers in the castle itself; the stewards and builders were tasked with reparations for the place. The rangers were to take inventory of the equipment on the Wall and gather all the wildling corpses to burn.

Bramble came across Ygritte’s corpse. She hadn’t meant to; she thought Jon would have taken her by now.

Her breath tumbled into the air before dissipating. _Oh, Ygritte,_ she thought as she crouched by the woman. Dried blood caked her lips almost delicately, like a dark red lipstick. Ygritte was beautiful and fierce, and Bramble wished she could have known the warrior. A warrior kissed by fire, yet unable to evade the cold clutches of death.

The other men would want her burned with the rest. But Jon wanted to take her past the Wall and into the true North for burning, didn’t he? Bramble thought she remembered that bit correctly.

 _All this Sight,_ Bramble grumbled to herself, _and you still can’t remember the show._

It wasn’t the first time she got upset with herself for not watching the re-runs with her mom and dad. _It’s because of the sex scenes,_ she, for the thousandth time, rationalized. _Nobody wants to sit through soft-core porn with their parents._

If Bramble left Ygritte, one of the other Crows would come along and drag her off. There were plenty nearby that’d instantly spot Ygritte’s splash of red hair on the dark ground. She’d be tossed into a heap with the rest of them.

Where the hell was Jon, anyways? Why did Bramble think she needed to help him?  She didn’t owe him anything. And what had he exactly done for her, anyways?

_The woman he loved is dead. Don’t be such a bitch. You know what loss feels like._

Guilt washed through Bramble. She was just upset that she was starting to…come back, again. Not wholly, no. Never wholly. This world had taken parts of her old self that could never be returned. There were bits and pieces, though, struggling to find a place amidst the emotionless world of survival.

It kinda hurt.

Bramble looked around the area to make sure nobody noticed her before reaching down and putting her hands underneath Ygritte’s stiff arms. She dragged her to a nook underneath one of the staircases where nobody would go looking for a wildling corpse. Then Bramble got back to work, eyes sharp on the lookout for Jon. There’d be no point in hiding her body if he didn’t know where it went to.

Thirty minutes later, Jon was spotted coming out of the cells and down to the courtyard below. Bramble briskly walked to him before anyone else could get in her way.

Jon was haggard. Maybe more so than the rest of them. Bramble couldn’t see much around his shoulders, where everyone’s emotions and fates usually perched. There was only a gray cloud, like winter fog hanging low on the mountains.

“What is it, Bramble?” he asked, not unkindly. Only tiredly.

She led him to where Ygritte was hidden. Jon stopped and stared at her, face an unreadable mask. The gray cloud darkened and roiled in pain. It was hardly a drastic change, but Bramble suddenly felt like she was intruding on something very, very personal. She turned to leave and forget what she had seen when Jon said, “Thank you. For…this.”

Without looking directly at him, Bramble nodded once. “Oh, and before I forget,” he added as she took another step to leave, “One of the wildlings wants to talk to you. His name’s Tormund. Best go see him before nightfall.”

-

The guards let her into the cell. The sun was setting, meaning that the only source of light coming from the windows would soon be gone.

Tormund sat on the ground, amidst miscellaneous crates and sacks. The cells had not been used as actual cells for a long time.

He propped himself upright when he saw Bramble walk through. The door shut solidly behind her. “Didn’t think you’d come,” he said. His brogue was thick.

She walked forward a little, still keeping a large distance from him. Whatever he wanted from her was unknown. But, Bramble supposed, anyone such as Tormund would like to meet the person who threw them right through the wall of a rampart.

“Jon tells me you’re a mute,” Tormund went on. His eyes were searching every inch of Bramble, making her feel the same way whenever Pyp did it. He was keener. “But don’t worry; it won’t stop me from talking.”

There wasn’t much on his shoulders, which was a little surprising. Bramble didn’t think he’d accept this sort of fate so easily. Maybe he knew better. Maybe he was just that kind of person.

“I didn’t tell him what you did. That you hurled me through solid wood like it was nothing.” Tormund laughed to himself a little. “Nobody should be able to do that. Even me. And yet you did. A little lanky twig of a thing.” He gestured for Bramble to come closer. “Can’t see you that well. Getting dark in here. Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Not right now.”

Reluctantly, Bramble neared until she was only a few feet away from Tormund. He gazed up at her, a slow smile creeping on his face. “You a woman wanting to be a man? Or a woman wanting to be a Crow?”

Bramble stilled and grew grim. Tormund’s smile widened. “None of the others know, eh? Night’s Watch isn’t full of the brightest lot. Even Snow’s not gonna see a girl if he doesn’t think he has to. You pull it off good. Probably haven’t taken a piss in front of anyone. But they’re gonna notice your little jawline is as smooth as a baby’s bottom here pretty soon. That, and other things.” His eyes went down to her crotch.

She tilted her head in a slight challenge. Tormund easily read it and said, “You’re not gonna have to kill me, Little Crow. I won’t tell anyone your secret. Mostly because I don’t really care. You don’t need a cock to fight, as you’ve well shown. Like a wildling woman." He leaned back, sated. "I just wanted to meet the person who had the strength of five men.” A pause. “Maybe more.”

Bramble and Tormund stared at each other for several moments. She couldn’t process everything she was feeling. Anger, fear, excitement, dread—they were all piling up inside her with nowhere to go to.

Her fists clenched. Tormund saw them and said, “Be careful, Little Crow. There are more dangerous men here than me.”

After giving him one last look, Bramble swiftly turned and exited the cell.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Regularity at Castle Black started again the next day. Bramble found herself sparring with Grenn and Edd and Olly. Sam and Gilly and the baby sat at one of the tables. Jon had been with them, but the Red Woman swept him away, informing that Stannis wanted to speak with him. Bramble avoided Melisandre’s gaze. The longer she could stay hidden, the safer she’d be.

Tormund was right. There were more dangerous men in this place than him. But Melisandre could possibly be the most dangerous one of them all.

The shadow-baby-monster she gave birth to looked similar to the creatures that chased her. It might be a coincidence; darkness was darkness. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was something far, far worse.

Bramble loved suspicion. It calmed her unequivocally.

She shoved Olly to the ground and aimed her training sword at his neck. “You know what you did?” Edd asked as he watched.

Olly pushed the sword out of his way and got back up. “I wasn’t paying attention to my feet. Didn’t stay in a proper stance.”

“Good,” Grenn said with a nod. “Do it again.”

Bramble tilted her head and leaned on her sword like a cane. Olly got back into a stance and held his sword in front of him. She shook her head and pointed to his right foot. He shifted it in forward. She nodded.

Her sword moved, moving quickly enough that it challenged Olly but not so harshly that he’d never have a chance to learn. He managed to block four times before she tripped him up. When Olly looked rightly frustrated, Grenn said, “You need to learn how to fight with a sword. A bow and arrow is good…until you’re toe-to-toe with somebody who wants to kill you.”

“You’ll get to use a shield in a few days to make blocking a bit easier,” said Edd. “But before that you have to get used to swinging a sword.”

“Alright,” Olly sighed, getting back up to his feet for the hundredth time. “Just—”

A sudden feline yowl drew all their attention. Two brothers had a cat cornered against the wall, trying to step on its tail and jab it with a training sword. The cat screamed and hissed and swiped, but the Crows weren’t bothered. It only spurred them on.

Cats were common at Castle Black. They kept the rats and mice away. But a lot of the men in the Night’s Watch were here for a reason, and most of those reasons were stomach-turning. They had sadistic tendencies and liked to hurt little helpless things.

Gilly spoke terse words to Sam, pointing to the scene unfolding. He only patted her leg and sadly directed her away from the sight.

“Come on,” Grenn muttered, looking on at the Crows with a degree of anger. “Let’s get back to training.”

“Derrick and Brandt,” Edd spat. “Couple of fuckers.”

Brandt violently jabbed the cat with his stick and drew blood. Its cries echoed the courtyard. Derrick reached down and grabbed it by the neck, ready to snap the little cat’s bones.

Nobody did a thing.

 _People who abuse animals should be put on death row,_ her mom used to say with complete conviction. She always had to change the channel when ASPCA commercials came on. _It’s not right to hurt people. But it’s even more evil to want to hurt something that can’t defend itself. Ganap na kasamaan._

Bramble felt anger. Uncontrollable, hot anger that swept through her like a sun flare. She didn’t used to get like this; on Earth Bramble rarely got angry. And when she did it was usually resolved with a good cry and a talk with her mom or her friends. But here…here it resulted in _pain._

It was a problem, yes. But not one Bramble was presently going to fix.

She gripped her training sword and swiftly moved to the brothers. Both their backs were turned to her, so Derrick didn’t see the flat of her weapon swinging towards his head until it was too late. The wooden sword splintered and broke against his head with a _crack._ Derrick immediately dropped the cat and fell like a sack of potatoes.

Brandt whirled to her. “What the fuck, you fucking m—”

He never finished the word “mute,” because Bramble punched him so hard she felt one of his teeth pop out.

Blood spurted from Brandt’s mouth. He stumbled away, crying from the pain. Bramble chucked what was left of her training sword and hit him square in the back. He fell to the ground with a yelp.

The courtyard had long become silent. Bramble ignored every stare she felt on her and made her way up to the cat, crouching down and examining it. Blood stained its fur, but it didn’t look like too bad of a wound. Fear buzzed around its tiny little body.

She slowly started to reach out her hand towards the feline. It immediately bolted. She held back a sigh. Not surprising.

Bramble stood and made her way back to Olly, Grenn and Edd. Olly looked at her with outright admiration and Edd shook his head and chuckled. Grenn appeared confused, again, and was regarding her with some form of suspicion.

It made her wonder. Would he _ever_ say anything? Or would he take her secret to the grave?

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Edd muttered as he glanced over at Brandt helping Derrick to his feet. “If they’re okay doing that to a cat, then they’ll do it to a person, too.”

All she did was shrug, take Edd’s training sword, and went back to knocking Olly off his feet.

-

It was as if nightfall had a weight to it. Bramble grimly looked on at the fully constructed pyre in the middle of the courtyard. Baratheon soldiers circled the pyre with lighted torches, dotted amidst the Crows and imprisoned wildlings who were forced to watch what was to happen.

Mance Rayder was to be burned alive. Sacrificed to the Lord of Light for not bending the knee to a man grasping at ideas of the throne.

It made her angry. Angry at Stannis, angry at Mance, angry at herself.

Angry at the Red Woman.

Melisandre stood with Stannis and Davos twenty feet in front of them. She didn’t seem to notice Bramble’s presence, still; she was only concerned with Jon and looking like a mysterious priestess.

Shireen and her mother stood on the balcony with guardsmen looming behind them. The little princess looked beautiful, dressed in furs and her brown hair pulled back. The greyscale matched the shades on her furs. Bramble liked doing that at one point. Her birthmark was part of her, so she might as well look good donning such a unique trait.

They, Stannis, and every soldier in the courtyard stood upon lakes of death. Black liquid dripped from the balcony where Shireen and her mother stood in heavy sloughs, dissipating before they ever hit the ground.

_Bakit ko nakikita ito?_

Bramble was feeling sentimental today, it seemed. She didn’t think much in Filipino, anymore. Her mother’s language—her language—only made her heart ache after too much use. Bramble’s mother was gone, and she had no way of even speaking in the tongue to keep that small piece of her mom with her.

_Stop. You’ll make yourself hurt._

“Why do they want us all here?” Edd grumbled. “Can’t they just burn him at their campsite?”

“Because they want to make an example,” Pyp said, voicing Bramble’s thoughts. “They want to show us that we can just as easily end up like Mance.” He eyed the back of Melisandre’s head. “I know…I know they killed our brothers. I’m happy he’s being punished. But…”

“But not like this,” Sam finished lowly. “This isn’t justice. It’s a sacrifice.”

Sam’s words sent a chill through Bramble. _Sakripisyo._

The courtyard quieted as a single, shackled man came down the stairs flanked by two Baratheon soldiers. Everyone, Bramble included, watched Mance Rayder slowly face Stannis and Melisandre. Dread filled his eyes upon seeing the pyre constructed solely for him.

 _Would you mind being burned alive?_ Bramble asked herself. _Would you even burn?_

She should try it sometime.

“Mance Rayder,” Stannis spoke, “you’ve been called the King Beyond the Wall. Westeros has but one king. Bend the knee, and I’ll promise you mercy.”

Mance remained silent. His eyes flickered to Jon for a brief second.

“Kneel, and live.”

This time Mance replied. “This used to be my home for many years. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

Bramble heard Jon let out a small, defeated breath. She wanted to look down at her feet and spare herself from the scene about to happen. Her gaze wouldn’t lower, though, and she continued to look on as Stannis nodded once and signaled for his soldiers to tie Mance to the stake.

Melisandre addressed the crowd. “We all must choose. Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, our choices are the same. We choose light, or we choose darkness. We choose good, or we choose evil. We choose the True God—or the false.” She took a torch from one of the soldiers and held it aloft. Shadows unseen to the normal eye danced across her beautiful face. “Free folk, there is only one true king. And his name is Stannis. Here stands your King of Lies. Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness.”

She turned and began putting the torch to the pyre. The fire spread quickly, filling the air with smoke. Resolve soon fled from Mance, replaced with unadulterated terror as fire licked at his feet. He began thrashing against his bonds. His cries started out low, but rose with the height of the flames.

Bramble could clearly see the whites of Mance’s eyes as he was offered up. Jon made a noise and abruptly walked away. She barely paid him any mind. Death was barely visible in the midst of the fire. Bramble caught a few glimpses at it, existing between the licks and roils of flame. The dance between the two was entrancing in a horrific way. It was almost as if—

An arrow screamed through the air and pierced Mance’s chest. Death leapt out and took hold of him before the fire could, like a hand eagerly and ruthlessly grasping at candy. Its surprising ferocity almost made Bramble jump back. She had never seen it happen like that, before.

_Sakripisyo._

As Mance went limp, as the courtyard turned to look at Jon and the bow in his hand, Melisandre spun to regard the spot where Bramble had stood. She managed to hold onto her composure, but her eyes were shocked and her full lips parted in confusion.

Bramble watched Melisandre’s reaction from behind Edd and Grenn, hidden from view. Her heart was rapidly beating in her tight chest and her limbs shook.

_What did you just see?_

 She cast her gaze to Jon, who stood with death forming at his feet amidst the shadows cast by the lord’s light.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope there's at least one person liking this?


	10. Chapter 10

“Ah, I see you’ve brought some food for the ravens,” Sam said, getting up from where he was seated in the library. “Did hunting go well?”

Bramble shrugged and tipped her hand from side-to-side. “Ah. I see. Grenn was saying a lot of the game could have been scared away by the battle.”

She handed him the bucket filled with chopped rabbit’s meat and lightly punched his chest. “Hello, Bramble,” Gilly spoke up. Bramble turned to say a silent hello but stopped.

Princess Shireen sat next to her with a formal, genuine smile on her face.

After staring a moment too long, Bramble remembered her manners and bowed to the princess. “Hello,” Shireen said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Bramble made a “likewise” gesture, hesitating to meet Shireen’s innocent little eyes. “He’s a…mute,” Gilly slowly explained. “He can’t speak.”

“Really?” Shireen asked, immediately alight with curiosity. “Have you always been like that?” A nod. “How interesting. Can you only communicate through writing?”

“That, and scowls,” Sam put in, then chortled at his own joke. Bramble rolled her eyes and took out parchment. She wrote on it and then gave it to Shireen.

“’He thinks he’s funny,’” Shireen read, giggling. She looked back up at Bramble. “I don’t know, I’ve heard him say some amusing things.”

“You see, I’m appreciated here in the library,” Sam sniffed.

Another eye roll. “The princess is teaching me how to read,” Gilly eagerly informed. “So soon you’ll be able to pass me notes about Sam, too.”

“Erm, no, that’s not _exactly_ what notes are meant for,” Sam said rather hurriedly. Gilly and Shireen snickered while Bramble poorly hid her smile. Sam huffed, as he usually did when he was flustered.

Their conversation was interrupted by the shuffling of feet. “What is this?” Maester Aemon asked as he slowly walked over to their nook. His right hand was slightly reached out to feel where he was going. “Libraries are meant to be a quiet place of contemplation, if I remember correctly.”

“Apologies, Maester Aemon,” Sam said. Aemon then smiled and hoarsely chuckled. Bramble glanced down at the floor beneath him. Death followed along, but it moved like a gentle shepherd. It often did for people in their older years.

“No apologies necessary, Samwell. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard a lady’s laughter. Quite a refreshing sound in a place such as this.” He paused and tilted his head in Bramble’s direction. “Is our voiceless ranger here?”

It was a bit unnerving how he could do that. “Yes,” Sam replied. “He came to deliver food for the ravens.”

“Ah. Wonderful. Bramble, Samwell, you should begin the journey to the mess hall. Election for the new Lord Commander will begin soon.”

“Right, maester. Thank you.”

Bramble and Sam gave each other the same look as Aemon shuffled away. That slight nervousness.

“It sounds like people are going to vote for Ser Alliser,” Shireen quietly said. “He seems mean.”

“He is mean,” Gilly affirmed.

Bramble wrote on some parchment and gave it to Sam. He read it to himself and then sharply looked at her. “You…you couldn’t possibly think…”

She nodded affirmatively. Sam drew his brows together. “Jon doesn’t want to be in such a position.”

There was a frustrated sigh from Bramble. She glanced at Gilly and their little boy and raised her brows.

Sam understood what she was trying to say. “Yes, but—I mean—”

Bramble cut him off with a not-so-light punch to the chest. She bowed to Shireen and Gilly once more and left the library. Sam watched her go, the bucket of rabbit meat still in his hands.

-

It was bound to happen, no matter what, so Bramble didn’t feel too bad about nudging Sam to put Jon up for candidacy. Maester Aemon probably had a few words to say to Tarly, too, the old fox. Because of Sam’s actions, she and the Crows fondest of Jon were now pounding the tables and cheering for their new Lord Commander.

But this meant things were coming. Things worse than the Battle for Castle Black.

She decided she’d go to Hardhome when the time came. It was probably a bad idea—no, wait, it _was_ a bad idea. Who in their right mind would want to walk into a giant, unstoppable massacre?

Bramble wasn’t in her right mind, though. And she couldn’t just sit here and wait around while everyone else risked their lives. She was part of this, now. Ever since Pyp was saved from that arrow, she had become part of this whole shitstorm. Might as well see it through.

 _If you run any further, you’re giving them what they want. They’ve been pushing you here all along, to put you in the hands of the Night King. You need to_ stay.

Jojen’s warning made Bramble’s cheers turn hollow. But Jojen was probably dead by now, taking his cryptic messages along with him. Maybe he didn’t know why the Night King wanted Bramble—he just knew she was wanted.

It probably had to do with the Sight. Or the face that she was from another world. Or that she knew things that were to happen. _Or_ all of the above. Bramble didn’t believe he intended to kill her. He was going to use her.

_You go to Hardhome, you may make things worse._

The second she doubted departing for Hardhome, though, Bramble looked at the smiling faces of Jon, Edd, Grenn, and the others who would volunteer to go because of their loyalty. They planned to save the wildlings—to save men, women and children who didn’t deserve the fate they’d be dealt.

And isn’t what she used to do when she first came to this world? Try to save people? Before the world itself spat in her face, kicked her in the vag and stripped her of every emotion except bitter survival.

Damn, she was stupid. But _damn,_ she was loyal.

The Night King could piss off. Bramble had stuff to do.

-

The cat was back again in the courtyard, looking mangy as ever. It had cleaned itself of blood from its injury and was now rubbing against Bramble’s legs while she took a break at one of the tables. “Looks like it remembers you,” Grenn said as he came and sat down beside her.

She took out a stash of salted jerky and tore off a piece to give to the cat. It snatched it from between her fingers and nosily started chewing. Grenn chuckled at the sight. “Now it’ll never leave you alone.”

 _Good,_ Bramble thought. The cat was…scrappy. Her dad was allergic to cats, so they never had one growing up. But this little orange tabby with squinty yellow eyes was cuter than most of the people here.

“Hey, er, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Grenn said in a lower tone. Bramble stilled for a moment before returning to giving the cat scraps. “About the night of the battle. I didn’t tell nobody like you said, but there’s no way I can forget what I saw.”

Bramble didn’t look at him. “You stopped a fucking giant, Bramb. That ain’t normal.”

_He called you Bramb._

“Do you ever think you’re gonna tell someone? Like Jon? He should prolly know you…”

She shrugged. “Look,” Grenn said, “I’m no snitch, yeah, but I don’t want you to tear my head off if I accidentally let somethin’ slip.”

Bramble gave him a sidelong, doubtful glance. Grenn tossed his hands up. “Hey, you killed a whole lot of men in a whole lot of ways. Don’t blame me for being a little scared.” Grumbling, he added, “it doesn’t help that you could _literally_ tear my head off, too.”

After sighing and tossing the cat the last of her jerky, Bramble took out her parchment and wrote a response on the cold table.

THEY WILL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH. CAN’T KEEP MY SECRETS JUST TO MYSELF MUCH LONGER. IT MIGHT BE MY HEAD THAT WILL GET TORN OFF. THANK YOU FOR NOT TELLING ANYONE. BUT YOUR HOLE STAYS SHUT.

“Right,” Grenn drawled before crumpling the parchment up. Bramble ripped it from his hands and stuffed it back in her pocket. “You’re fucking confusing.”

Bramble shrugged her shoulders again and started petting her feline friend. It closed its eyes and started purring like a broken motor. Grenn stiffened next to her, probably just getting himself more upset.

“Can I pet him?”

Princess Shireen didn’t wait for permission before crouching down and running a sable-gloved hand over the cat’s back. It appreciated the attention and gave a scratchy meow. “B-begging your pardon, princess,” Grenn said nervously as he stood up, gave a stiff bow and hurried off.

Bramble looked at death pooled beneath Shireen and felt her stomach turn. “So many of these men are afraid of me,” Shireen said she continued to pet the cat. “I don’t know if it’s because of the greyscale or that I’m a princess.”

She gave the princess a look that said, “both.”

Shireen understood and smiled. She had such a keen sense of humor. “What’s his name?” she asked as she scratched behind the cat’s ear. Bramble shook her head. “Can I name him?” A definite nod. Shireen pushed her lips to the side in brief contemplation. “I really want to name him after a Targaryen. He looks brave. Or…or maybe one of the dragons?”

Bramble smirked and nodded in agreement. Shireen’s finger moved under the cat’s chin. “Hmm. He _has_ to be Balerion, doesn’t he? Dreaded by all.”

 _Balerion the Dread,_ Bramble voicelessly mused. Shireen looked up at her. “What do you think? Is it an appropriate name?”

Because Bramble honestly would have gone with something boring and stupid like Sir Stripes or Tom, she approved of Shireen’s choice. “Wonderful,” said the little princess. “He’s in desperate need of a bath, though. Can’t go burning his enemies with dirt and fleas—”

“Princess!” a rough voice exclaimed. Shireen and Bramble turned their heads to watch as an older man made his way down the stairs and into the courtyard. “You’re not supposed to leave without somebody guarding you. It’s not safe.”

“Do I look like I’m in danger?” Shireen asked back rather sassily. “I was just petting Balerion the Black Dread.”

Ser Davos huffed and came to them. “He doesn’t look black. Or a dragon.”

“It’s _metaphorical,”_ Shireen said with a perfected eye roll. Bramble’s brows raised and she glanced at Ser Davos with a half-smile.

“Well, I’m not metaphorical in saying that you’re gonna get fleas from Balerion the Orange Dread,” Davos replied.

“We’re going to give him a bath.”

“My lady, cats hate baths,” Davos tried to reason. Shireen ignored him and directly addressed Bramble.

“Do you mind if I take Balerion for a bath?”

Bramble made a “go ahead” gesture. Shireen picked up Balerion, who only squirmed against her for a moment before going limp, and marched past Davos and back up the stairs.

“She’s a little tyrant,” he grumbled before marching off to catch up with Shireen.

 _Davos,_ Bramble thought. _He could save Shireen. They’ll be leaving, soon. Tell him before it’s too late._

But, then again, it might already be too late.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry you guys have to put up with my short chapters. They'll get longer here in a bit.

“Sam,” Jon lowly called before the meeting began. He tilted his head toward the empty seat beside him. “Maester Aemon?”

“He’s not feeling well,” Sam said. Bramble took a quiet drink of her swill as she pretended not to hear their conversation. “He apologizes for not being here.”

“Take good care of him.”

Bramble looked up at their new Lord Commander as he called the hall to order. “Brothers. As you all know too well, it’s long past time to dig a new latrine pit.” There was a short bout of laughter, but she could already feel tension rising between those on Jon’s side and those on Alliser’s side. Nothing was going to come of it, though, if she remembered correctly. “First Builder Yarwyck and I have decided to appoint a latrine captain to oversee this crucial task.” This time, Jon laughed a little with the men. When his smile faded, he said, “Bryan. Seems like a good a good job for a ginger.” He smiled again and raised his mug towards Bryan. Tension dissipated with more laughter.

Wait. Something…something was going to happen.

“Ser Alliser. You have more experience than any other ranger at Castle Black. You proved your valor many times over and defended the Wall from the wildling attack.” Jon’s face didn’t crack as he said, “I name you First Ranger.”

  _What’s going to happen next?_

Bramble felt death over her shoulder. She turned and followed its direction just as Jon spoke again. “Lord Janos. I’m giving you the command of Greyguard.”

Ah. Right. _That’s_ what was going to happen.

“Greyguard is a ruin,” Janos sneered.

“Yes, the fort is in a sorry state, rebuild it as best you can. First Builder Yarwyk can spare ten men—”

“I’ve been in charge with the defense of King’s Landing when you were soiling your swaddling clothes,” Janos cut off. Bramble watched with dark green eyes as she saw death wrap around his throat, unaware of its grip. “Keep your ruin.”

The hall erupted in dissent of Janos’ words. Bramble noticed Olly raise his hackles next to her. She put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “He’s speaking to our Lord Commander,” Olly growled.

He wouldn’t be talking at all, soon enough.

“Alright, alright!” Sam yelled over the hall to regain order. “That’s enough of that.”

“You mistake me,” Jon said, voice all at once low and loud. “That was a command. Pack your arms and armor, say your farewells, and ride for Greyguard.”

Janos leapt to his feet, chair scraping against the cold floor. “I will _not_ go meekly off to freeze and die. Give it to one of the fools who cast a stone for you! I will not have it! Do you hear me, boy? I will not have it!”

Emotions in the hall solidified into one.

_Offense._

Even those who weren’t fond of Snow looked at Janos with full knowledge that he had just committed something unforgivable. Jon was their _Lord Commander._

It was so still that Jon didn’t have to speak loudly when he said, “Are you refusing to obey my order.” It never had been, never would be, a question.

“You can stick your order up your bastard ass.”

Jon didn’t look at Bramble, Grenn, and Edd. His eyes remained locked on Slynt. “Take Lord Janos outside.”

Then she was getting out of her seat and flanking Edd’s left side while Grenn flanked the right. A cloud only she could see fell upon them. _You walk like you’re one of the brothers. They’ll turn their backs on you when they realize what you are._

Bramble would worry about it later.

“Olly, get my sword.”

The entire hall rose to their feet to make way for the three of them. Alliser Thorne stood in their way, eyes hard and cold. Edd stared him down, posing a silent challenge. Grenn moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. No words were spoken.

Alliser then stepped out of the way, leaving Janos out in in the open. The smug look he wore from being protected vanished in an instant, replaced with confusion and biting fear. Edd roughly grabbed Janos and pushed him towards the door. When he resisted, Bramble and Grenn linked their arms under his and started dragging him. Janos’ boots scraped against the floorboards, but to Bramble his resistance was barely anything at all.

The doors were already open for them. “Stop! You cannot do this!” Janos shouted upon deaf ears. They continued outside and into the dark, cold air. Nowadays the sun never fully reached the top of the sky, leaving them in dim light and underneath the looming Wall.

“You think the boy can scare me?” Janos half-laughed, but it was riddled with terror. “He’s mistaken! Yes, very mistaken!”

A wooden chopping block was placed on the deck they were leading Janos to. He continued to rant in denial even as Bramble and Grenn led him up the stairs and stopped him in front of the block. Edd shoved him to his knees. She looked to the hall’s entrance and saw Jon appear, shrouded in black and holding a power to him Bramble didn’t see so much as she _felt._

Olly was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs with Longclaw. Jon took it from him without pausing. When he made it up to the deck, Bramble released her unmovable grip on Janos. She and Grenn stepped back beside Edd.

Janos lifted his head to Jon as he removed Longclaw from its sheath. Bramble shivered at the sound of scraping steel. He handed the sheath to Edd and placed Longclaw in front of him with the tip touching the ground.

“If you have any last words, my lord, now’s the time.”

 _Dark eyes,_ a voice seemingly disjointed from Bramble’s own thought. _He has such dark eyes._

_They’ll be the same dark eyes looking down at you as you **die.**_

The thought was so sudden and forceful it nearly knocked Bramble off her feet. She sharply glanced down, expecting to see some semblance of death waiting for her. But all she saw was a frosty floor and black boots.

“I—I was wrong!” Janos blurted. His body trembled. “You’re the Lord Commander! We all serve you. I’m sorry. Not only for this, f-for all that I’ve said.”

Jon closed his dark eyes for a moment, giving Bramble the chance to regain some of her composure.

“I was wrong!”

When Jon opened them again, he raised Longclaw above him to bring it down on Janos’ neck. “My lord, _please!_ Mercy!” Janos cried, stopping Jon mid-swing. “Mercy! Mercy!” He started to sob in ugly heaves as a confession spilled out. “I’ll go, I will! P-please. I’m afraid. I’ve always been afraid.”

The courtyard watched as Janos was reduced to a pile of whimpering tears.

And the courtyard watched as Jon removed his head from his neck.

Bramble refused to take her eyes off Janos as death surged around him and claimed whatever soul he had. The act itself was soundless, but the sound of Janos’ head hitting the floor and wet blood pouring from the stump of his neck thundered in Bramble’s ears.

Jon’s dark eyes went to the lone figure standing on the guest wing’s balcony. Bramble didn’t have to follow his gaze to know that Stannis had watched the entire thing.

 _You’re going to die,_ she whispered to herself. _You’re going to die._

_But when?_

_And are you ready to die now? After all this?_

“Bramb,” Grenn’s own whisper cut in. She looked to him and saw he was motioning for her to wipe her nose. She put a gloved finger below a nostril and saw her own glistening blood smeared across the black leather.

Great. If Bramble was going to get nosebleeds, she deserved to have the power to control things with her mind and fight monsters from other dimensions.

Oh, wait. She _was_ in another dimension and _was_ being chased by monsters as scary as the Demogorgon. Except she didn’t have cool eighties music to fight to and Steve Harrington to swing a bat with nails in it.

Damn, she missed Netflix.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Bramble used to be a poet.

Or, at least she tried to be a poet when she was fourteen. They were mostly about boys not liking her and how nobody understood the pain she went through and how the view was outside her bedroom window.

They were crappy, to say the least.

Shireen’s poetry, on the other hand, should have been bound in a book, published, and entombed in history.

Maybe Bramble thought of it that way because she already loved the little girl. Didn’t matter either way.

_You loved Reesa and Jak, too. You died that day they did. What if you can’t save Shireen? Will you spiral, again?_

“So you like it?” she questioned, both eager and hesitant to know Bramble’s reply. Shireen didn’t move that much because Balerion the Dread was currently curled up on her lap. He even had an intricately braided leather collar, now, and was rid of fleas and other unsavory bugs.

Bramble leaned back in her chair and made a mind-blowing gesture. Shireen’s brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

 _I love it,_ Bramble mouthed, making her lips concise to Shireen could understand. It produced a lovely smile from the princess.

“I know it still needs work. No poem is perfect the first time around. Maybe I’ll have Sam take a look at it or read it to Maester Aemon so he can critique it.”

Shireen didn’t suggest her mother or father.

GOOD IDEA, Bramble wrote on the large piece of parchment in front of her. Already the page was filled with numerous responses for Shireen.

Somebody cleared their throat a few feet away. Bramble and Shireen turned their heads and saw Olly standing there. “Lord Commander Snow wishes to speak with you, Bramb.” His eyes darted to the princess. “Er, Bramble.”

“Bramb?” Shireen repeated. “They call you Bramb for short?” She considered the nickname for a moment. “I like it.”

Olly had suddenly turned red in the face. Bramble smirked. “I suppose I’ll have to go find somebody else to bother,” Shireen sighed in a tone much too old for her age. “Maybe Gilly needs help with something.”

The princess liked being here. She could get away from the harsh eyes of her mother and actually talk to people. And Bramble supposed Shireen liked her because, well, they were both marred. Bramble had a birthmark and a scar to go with it, and Shireen had greyscale.

Bramble stood and bowed to Shireen, who smiled and waved goodbye. As she turned to follow Olly out of the library, she glimpsed fire upon snow and the burnt corpse of a little girl hanging limp within the flames.

_She’s not going to be Reesa. Not going to be Reesa._

“So are you friends with the princess now?” Olly questioned, trying to keep his voice nonchalant. Bramble drew herself from the dark thoughts and teasingly elbowed him. He made a noise and scowled. “Shut it. I don’t like her. She’s a princess. You’re not supposed to like princesses.” Another elbow. “Stop!” Olly protested. The redness had traveled up his ears and down his neck. It only made Bramble scratchily laugh.

He grumbled and glowered the rest of the way to Jon’s study. It gave Bramble time to think about what Jon could possibly want with her. Was she in trouble? Had he finally found out about her sex? Did Grenn let something slip? Or was she just being called in for something routine?

Olly opened the door for her. Jon sat at his study, going over an endless stack of papers. He glanced at them. “Thank you, Olly. Go and get some lunch.”

With the dip of his head, Olly departed and closed the door. Jon rubbed his eyes and motioned for Bramble to come closer. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you,” he said. She took a seat on the other side of his desk. Jon slid parchment and an inkwell and quill in front of her. “Is that alright?”

Why was he asking if it was alright? Jon was the Lord Commander. He technically had no obligation to do such a thing.

But Jon was a good man. That was why.

Bramble nodded and awkwardly picked up the quill. She didn’t have much experience writing with one, but it’d have to do. Just like a pen, right?

“You spoke against fighting the wildlings when you first came here,” Jon started. “And you suggested that we let them pass through peacefully and ban together to fight the real enemy.” He straightened in his chair. Those dark eyes stared into Bramble. “If I remember correctly, you said that it’s not about deserve, anymore. Do you still believe that?”

Instead of nodding, Bramble wrote down, I DO.

Jon glanced at it and went on. “And do you believe the Northern saying? ‘When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.’” He spoke with a somewhat distant gaze, as if he was recalling his father saying it.

Bramble tapped what she wrote down. Where was this going?

_Nowhere good._

“You are not to divulge the information I tell you before I make an announcement,” said Jon. “Do I have your word?”

This time she just nodded.

“Good. As you well know, the real threat is the army of the dead. If we don’t get all the wildings across the Wall, they’ll end up as more soldiers for the enemy.”

Bramble was already writing when Jon finished. YOU DON’T NEED MY OPINION TO KNOW WHAT THE OTHERS WILL BELIEVE. THEY’LL THINK YOU’RE BETRAYING THE NIGHT’S WATCH.

Jon sighed. “Yes, I know. But it’s not their decision to make. It’s mine. Even if it means angering a few brothers because I want to keep people from the hands of the dead.”

IT SEEMS YOU ALREADY HAVE YOUR MIND MADE UP. WHY DO YOU WANT TO DISCUSS THIS WITH ME?

“I…don’t know, exactly.” He smiled a little, but it was strained and showed tiredness. “You came in like most of the other Crows. Bitter, angry, and somewhat feral. I thought I had you figured out as someone who liked to kill. But then you went and protested against killing wildlings. You made points that nobody at Castle Black would have ever said aloud without fear.”

_Well, not any fear in the moment. That all came afterwards._

“You’re not who I thought you were, Bramble. You care. You care about the wildlings, you care about Olly, you care about your brothers,” he smiled for real this time, “and you even care about cats.

“I’m going to ask Tormund to convince the wildlings to take safe passage on Stannis’ ships. When they arrive, I’m tasking you with finding a safe place to locate them south of the Wall.”

Bramble stared. She opened her mouth to speak, then remembered she had no voice to speak with. “I won’t hold it against you if you refuse,” Jon continued. “But I think you’re the best man for the job. You’ll ensure they’re taken care of. And you’re not afraid to throw a few punches to get people to do what you want. Most of the brothers are too afraid to challenge you, and if the wildlings aren’t, they will be.

“So are you up for the task?”

_Shit. Fuck. Shucks. Don’t do it, you little bitch. Don’t you put your hand out—_

Bramble was glaring, but she put her hand towards Jon despite the protests in her mind. Pride shown in his eyes as he clasped her hand with his own. And that look made her…happy? Glow?

Something suddenly fluttered in her stomach.

_Oh freaking hell, did you just get **butterflies?** Because of Jon? _

_Don’t go there. Do not freaking go there._

Jon was handsome, yeah. Now that Bramble wasn’t solely concerned with survival, she was starting to notice more things. It was undoubtedly unfortunate. And besides, Jon and Daenerys were, you know, a _thing._

Before her face could turn red, Bramble wrote on the parchment. WHEN WILL YOU MAKE THE ANNOUNCEMENT?

“Depending on what Tormund does, tomorrow night.”

After hesitating a moment, Bramble scribbled, DOES OLLY KNOW OF YOUR PLANS?

Jon gave her a partially confused look. “No.”

She pursed her lips, trying to decide if she should say what she wanted. But this was about Olly. Bramble cared about Olly. And she didn’t want to see a little boy strung up on a rope. She didn’t want to see death take him.

OLLY WATCHED HIS PARENTS GET BUTCHERED BY WILDLINGS. HE’S JUST A BOY, BUT HE’S OLD ENOUGH TO HATE. HE STILL FEELS THE ANGUISH OF LOSING HIS PARENTS. IF YOU DON’T HELP HIM UNDERSTAND WHY YOU’RE ABOUT TO DO THIS, YOU’RE GOING TO LOSE HIM. TALK TO OLLY.

Jon had to read her words a few times before finally looking back up at her. Then he nodded and said, “You’re right. I will. Thank you.”

Well, she had gone this far. Might as well prod Jon some more. WHEN IS STANNIS LEAVING?

“A fortnight.”

A sort of tremble ran through Bramble. She was running out of time and with no plan or way to tell anyone what was going to happen. “Sam tells me you spend time with the princess when you’re off-duty,” Jon spoke. “You and Shireen get on very well. Did you have any siblings? Before you came here.”

Bramble shook her head, eyes cast down. “And you don’t have any…tendencies to liking little girls, do you?”

Her gaze went back to Jon, hard and angry. An image of Reesa lying on the ground, raped and bloodied, flashed through Bramble’s mind. She shook her head once. “I didn’t think so, but one can never be too sure in a place like this,” Jon apologized. “It’s good you’re Shireen’s friend. I imagine it’s not easy living a life like she does.”

Bramble wanted to tell Jon that they’re _going to sacrifice their daughter._ But how could she?

He lightly rapped his knuckle on the desk. “I think that will be all, Bramble. Thank you.”

She stood, bowed, and left the study. Olly stood outside the door, waiting for his next orders from Jon. “Olly,” Jon called, “come in here. I want to talk to you.”

Bramble tucked her head down and smiled. It was only there for a brief moment. The reminder of death awaiting those you had grown to care for really put a damper on things.

-

Grenn liked to talk out loud, especially when Bramble couldn’t say anything more than a head movement or the shrug of her shoulders. The howling wind atop the Wall couldn’t drown out his voice.

It wasn’t that Bramble minded much. She liked Grenn—more than she thought she would. He didn’t spill the beans on her big little secret and stayed nice to her despite all of it.

But he’d be going to Hardhome with all of them in two days’ time. Bramble kept looking down at his feet to see if she’d spot the beginnings of death. So far, though, she saw nothing.

“You think that big giant will be there?” Grenn asked aloud. “At Hardhome, with the rest of the wildlings.”

Bramble tilted her head in a nod. Grenn grunted. “That’s gonna be fucking awkward, yeah? I mean…he killed our brothers. He tried to kill us. You…did something that made him stop and now we’re gonna see him again.”

Another nod.

“What’s with you and them bloody noses?” Now that they were on the subject about the strange things Bramble did, Grenn wasn’t likely to get off it anytime soon. “You get ‘em whenever stuff is happening. Killing and the like.”

This time she made a face and shrugged. “You lying?” Grenn squinted at her. Bramble shook her head. “Huh. Doubt you’ll be asking anyone what it means, either.” A blast of wind nearly knocked them off their feet, but the warmth of the small fire they were huddled near kept them safe and close.

When the wind passed, Grenn dusted flakes of ice from his hair and asked, “Have you always been strong? Like the way you are now? You’ve lived like this your whole life?”

After a moment’s pause, Bramble shook her head again. “What? Really? When did you become a beast?” To add effect, he swung a few punches and then made exploding sounds.

Bramble chuckled and held up three fingers. “You…were three when you got it?”

 _No,_ she mouthed firmly.

“…Three years ago?”

_Yes._

“No shit? W—how did you get it? Can I get it?”

He probably wouldn’t want it once he got it. Though being strong and good at fighting was a plus in a world like this, she felt like it was a package deal with the Sight. And Bramble had a feeling that Grenn was the type of person who didn’t like seeing a manifestation of death consume living people.

Bramble gave her head a shake. Grenn tilted his head back and sighed. “S’pose it’s not all bad, yeah? You probably had to do some sort of human sacrifice or perform dark magic to get it.”

If only.

“Oh, don’t be scowling like that, Bramb. Doubt you’ll ever tell us the reasons behind it, so might as well lemme have my imagination,” Grenn laughed. “Did you drink the blood of a virgin? Did you have sex with a witch? Did you—”

Bramble pretended to lunge at him. Grenn jumped back but guffawed even louder.

 _“Don’t listen to that whole thing your mom says about being nice to boys,” her dad advised while he drove her to school. She was thirteen. “Be mean to them! Because boys are nasty. If you have to kick one, then kick them! They deserve it! And if you can’t do it, then tell me and I’ll kick them_ and _their dads.”_

_“Got it,” Bramble said. “Kick boys because they’re mean and nasty.”_

_“And don’t forget gross!”_

_“If boys are gross, then why did mom marry you?”_

_“Because your mom fell in love with a man, not a boy,” Dad replied with a smug smirk._

_“Dad, you still play with Legos and went to Comic-Con dressed as Aragorn.”_

_“And what’s that supposed to mean?_ You _went with me as Frodo.”_

Her dad’s advice about boys was something worth living by. Yet as Bramble stalked off from Grenn while he continued to laugh at her reaction, she couldn’t fight the smile caused by a gross boy. Man. Whatever.

First Jon, then Grenn. Who was next? Pyp? Edd? Probably.

_What has gotten into you? Stop being so…eck._

It was hard enough disguising herself as a guy. Bramble didn’t need to start getting emotions that’d get her into trouble—as a guy or a girl.

The first thing Grenn needed to do was stop calling her “Bramb.” It was a stupid nickname.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

It was early dawn by the time Grenn and Bramble finished their watch on the Wall. They took the lift down and separated to make sure everything was well at the castle. Bramble checked over the stables, armory and library.

In the library she found Shireen Baratheon asleep on one of the tables, using a thick, open book as a pillow. A few tables down, Sam was tirelessly transcribing with blood-shot eyes. He remained unaware of Bramble until she rapped on his table. It scared him more than it should have.

“O-oh, Bramble! What’re you doing here?”

Bramble made a gesture that practically said, _What am I doing here? What are you doing here?_

“Right, right. You had watch tonight. Sorry, I’m a bit tired.”

 _A bit?_ Bramble silently questioned.

“Is it almost morning?” A nod. Sam sighed. “Oh, wonderful. I’ve been trying to solve this equation for the past month and I haven’t made a scratch.” He acknowledged the sleeping princess a little ways off. “And I didn’t want Princess Shireen here all by herself.”

Despite the own fatigue wearing on her eyes, Bramble sat next to Sam and pulled out her parchment to ask why he was worrying about an equation in the first place.

“Because Maester Aemon could never figure it out and he assigned it to me to solve when I first came to the stewards. And now that he’s getting sicker, I just…” Sam trailed off, a look of sadness befalling him.

Bramble consolingly punched his arm and gestured for him to hand the book over. Sam was slightly befuddled but pushed it across the table to her without question. “There, that’s it.”

She furrowed her brows and examined the equation. It had been three years since Bramble did any mathematics, but hey, it was worth a shot.

And a shot well fired, come to find out.

 _Ah,_ Bramble mouthed, a rare grin coming out of her. She snapped for Sam to hand her the quill. He made a noise and put it in her grasp. _The letters are a little different,_ she said only to herself, _but they have the same principle._

At one point in the equation Bramble got stopped. She rubbed her scarred-over birthmark and grumbled. If only her dad were here. He held a master’s in physics at the University of Toronto and taught calculus and science classes at her high school in Thunder Bay. Some of that smartness spilled onto her, thankfully, but it took a bit longer for her to figure out things that he’d understand within a second.

After sifting through mathematical memories and formulas she had supposed were useless, Bramble remembered what to do next and quickly scrawled it down. It would have been easier with a calculator, but now she was glad her dad used to make her solve things without requiring one.

A couple minutes and a few drawn graphs later, Bramble had the answer circled and the proof to show its logic. Sam hastily grabbed the parchment with all her work on and went over it with darting eyes.

His mouth opened and closed several times and he made a few astounded sounds before any real words came out. “What…how did you…? No, that can’t be—oh, my.” Sam’s sudden, boyish giggle made Bramble think of her dad whenever he found something more interesting than it should have been. “Oh, _my!”_

Then he sharply regarded Bramble, who sat with a wan smile on her face. “The—the maesters in the Citadel can’t even figure this out! They’re not sure _what_ type of equation it is or what it relates to because it’s been unsolvable! So…so how were you able to solve it?”

 _Parametrical equations are a bitch,_ Bramble thought. But she just shrugged her shoulders to Sam.

“This…this formula, the one you used. I don’t think it exists! Does it? How do you know how to correctly apply it? Because it all makes sense!” His ecstatic demeanor was turning him red in the face with excitement.

 _What a nerdy little guy,_ she thought as she soundlessly chuckled at Sam. _And what a good friend._

Bramble grabbed the parchment to write on it. Sam eagerly leaned forward to see her response, hoping that it was an explanation to her knowledge of things the smartest old farts in Westeros couldn’t comprehend.

He frowned when he saw what she actually wrote.

GO TO BED SAM.

Bramble stood up, woke Shireen, and escorted her back to her quarters, leaving Sam to continue staring at an equation she had learned in high school.

Shireen walked with eyes half-closed as Bramble guided her down the hall. _How did you sneak away from your guards?_ she wanted to ask. _How have you possibly gone this long without being found by someone?_

“I was waiting for you all night,” Shireen sleepily reprimanded.

Bramble made apologetic movements. “It’s alright,” Shireen said. “I’m glad I got to see you before we left.”

_Left?_

“Father moved up the date to start marching to tomorrow,” she explained, sensing Bramble’s confusion. “There’ve been reports of bad weather approaching. He wanted to leave before it hit.”

Bramble slowed as the reality of the situation sunk in. Shireen, who was more awake now, looked up to her. “What’s the matter?”

_What’s the matter? What’s the **matter?**_

The Baratheon army was going south to Winterfell. Bramble was going north to Hardhome. The trek to the former Stark home took about a week. There couldn’t possibly be enough time.

Bramble recollected herself and patted Shireen’s shoulder. The little princess smiled. “I’m going to miss you too,” she said. “Thank you for making things less boring here.”

She threw her arms around Bramble’s waist and hugged her tightly. All Bramble could do was stand there and bite back growing fear. Then Shireen let go, smiled one last time, and rounded the corner to sneak back into her chambers without a dirty Crow right there beside her.

A moment passed. Then another. Bramble stood there, breathing in cold air and feeling the walls close in around her.

_Whatever made you think you could still save Shireen in the first place?_

Davos. There was still Davos. Bramble could—

The door on Bramble’s right creaked open. Something _poured_ from the room and sent shivers down her spine.

“Well, well,” Melisandre purred. “One of Lord Snow’s little friends.” She left the confines of her room and stood in the narrow, dim hallway. “Such delicate features you have, Lady Crow.” She made a sympathetic noise. “I think you know it’s only a matter of time before the truth is revealed. Already I hear whispers among the brothers about the nature of your sex. Your Lord Commander and friends defend you, but even they are beginning to wonder.”

Bramble turned fully to face the Red Woman, fighting the urge to tremble. Melisandre smiled and angled her head a fraction. “The longer I look at you, the more the Lord of Light tells me all is not as it seems. Shadows are cast upon you—ones that even He cannot penetrate. Yet the shadows hide something bright. And dangerous.” Her eyes languidly roved over Bramble. “I do not know of the secret powers you possess. But I will.”

This woman. This woman was going to sacrifice Shireen for _nothing._ She sacrificed others, murdered others.

The large necklace she wore made Bramble’s eyes hurt, but it wouldn’t quell the hot anger rising inside her. Nothing would.

Just as Melisandre opened her mouth to say something more, Bramble’s hand lashed out and gripped the large ruby set in the middle of Melisandre’s necklace. It sent an electric jolt through her system that left her insides buzzing. But she refused to let go.

Melisandre gasped and froze, most likely feeling the same sensation Bramble was victim to. _I know who you are, masamang babae,_ she spat with such vitriol Melisandre was sure to hear it. Bramble wanted to crush the pendant and show everyone just what the Red Woman was. To save Shireen and all the soldiers about to lose their lives in a hopeless battle. To save everyone from her lies and witchcraft.

An aura burst from Melisandre. It was something born of fire and light and revenge and fury. It was real and _human._

Still. Bramble had killed humans before. What difference would this make?

 _But she saves Jon,_ that same, detached voice reminded. _She saves Jon._

Bramble let go. Her palm burned from an unknown source of heat. Melisandre had backed up against the wall and regarded her with eyes too old for her body. She heaved deep, even breaths that echoed in the silence.

It took all Bramble had to turn on her heels and leave. She felt Melisandre’s gaze on her back even after she disappeared from view.

An imprint of the pendant was scorched onto Bramble’s palm. It was shoved into a drift of snow to soothe the pain.

Bramble felt sick. Whatever exchange had happened left her weak and vulnerable. _You’re being stupid, again. Just because you can solve a little math doesn’t mean you’re being smart._

Blood dripped from her nose and into the snow, leaving little red punctures in otherwise untouched purity. Bramble stared at the sight for longer than normal, watching each unobstructed droplet fall. Eventually she began to laugh little hisses. How could she not? This world—Bramble’s world—was so insane that acknowledging it was morbidly funny.

She should have died on that plane with her parents. They just wanted to go to Hawaii for their first long-distance vacation, after all. Now their bodies were probably at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean while she was here, making friends and enemies and possessing supernatural powers in a world supposed to be fictional.

Once the pain in her hand faded and soon turned numb, Bramble took it out of the snow and wiped her nose. She needed to sleep. Fuck, she needed sleep.

-

“You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you?” Shireen asked from atop her horse. Balerion sat comfortably in her arms.

Bramble nodded and tried not to show too much emotion as she was given the cat. Shireen bit back tears. “He prefers cooked chicken over rabbit, and he likes it mashed, not cut up.”

 _Goodbye, Shireen,_ Bramble mouthed.

“Goodbye, Bramble.”

She turned away from the princess before any tears could creep up. Anxiety budded in her chest. There was a note tucked in Bramble’s coat meant for Ser Davos, but she couldn’t spot the man anywhere. He wasn’t with Stannis, who at the moment was speaking with Jon.

During Bramble’s scanning she spotted Melisandre. The Red Woman stared back at her for a few moments before smiling. Ugh. What a hag.

After fruitlessly searching for a few more minutes with Balerion cradled in an arm, Bramble tapped on a Baratheon captain’s shoulder. She mimed having a beard and then pointed to Stannis. “Wh…Oh, you wanna know where Ser Davos is?” the captain said out loud. Bramble nodded. “He left this morning with the front squadron.”

The busy sounds of Castle Black were drowned out by a high-pitched ringing noise heard only by herself. Bramble made her way atop the southern ramparts to survey the army train. Davos was at least three hours away by now, meaning Bramble wouldn’t be able to sneak away until nightfall. But she wouldn’t be able to even then. Jon was going to have a meeting with all the Crows—and Tormund—joining him on the journey to Hardhome. It’d be suspicious if Bramble skipped out on that. Suspicious and stupid.

But _Shireen—_

Hardhome was a two-day ride from Castle Black each way. She’d still have time to do something.

Wouldn’t she?

Balerion meowed at Bramble. The sound grated against her ears. For such a feral cat, he had sure gotten used to being packed around. And being fed.

She made a face at him and carried the cat off to the kitchens. Gilly was there cutting potatoes with baby Sam settled in his basket. “Hello, Bramble,” she greeted after a glance. “What do you need?”

Bramble jostled Balerion, who meowed again. Gilly looked back to them with a real gaze, this time. “Oh,” she quietly breathed. “They left today, didn’t they? The princess, too. I’m going to miss her.”

Gilly then squinted her eyes at Balerion. “Is he actin’ like he’s starving? The liar. He got fed this morning.”

Bramble smiled and scratched behind the cat’s ears. Gilly sighed. “But, s’pose he’s sad, after all. Alright, bring ‘im here, I’ll get some food ready.”

Balerion was set on the ground. He trotted after Gilly while Bramble meandered over to baby Sam. He cooed at her when she waved.

Babies were awesome. Bramble liked kids a lot, as one could easily see. Becoming a pediatrician was one of the many careers she had on her list before that plane sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Along with paleontologist, cosmetologist, designer, director, film scorer, teacher, and engineer.

 _You remind me of the babe,_ Bramble suddenly mouthed, leaning in and poking his nose. _What babe?_ She drew back out, then came back in again. _The babe with the power._ Back out. _What power?_ She poked at Sam’s tummy. He giggled and kicked those stumpy legs of his. _The power of voo-doo. Who do? You do. Do what? Remind me of the babe._

By the end of it Bramble was bouncing on the balls of her feet and Sam was laughing gleefully. “What’re you doing?” Gilly asked with a bemused but delighted expression.

Bramble scratched the back of her head and made several gestures that practically said, “Well, you see…” and “I was just…”

Heaven forbid that anyone see her act like a regular human being around a baby.

“I’ll watch over Balerion,” she chuckled. “You’d better be off.”

After scratching behind Balerion’s ear and bidding farewell to Gilly and Sam, Bramble slunk off to gather her things for the journey. Not that she had a lot of things, per say, but what she really needed were strips of cloth to stuff in the linings of her underwear. Bramble could feel the cramps coming on. They were faint, for now, but soon they’d be worse—and bring the red river of torment with them.

Periods sucked already. Being in Westeros and having them? Even worse. Bramble thought about concocting her own sort of tampon, but she didn’t want to experiment with stuffing random things up her vag and seeing how it worked out. And Maester Aemon wasn’t likely to have Monistat up his sleeve should anything go wrong.

Speaking of which.

-

Bramble lightly knocked on the door to the maester’s quarters. Sam opened it and smiled a little when he saw her. “Hello, Bramb. What brings you here? I thought you went hunting.”

 _Just got back,_ Bramble mouthed, tossing a thumb over her shoulder so the point would get across. Sam made an “ah” noise and stepped aside so she could enter.

“Is that the silent Crow?” Maester Aemon called from the bed where he rested. At the end of his question he broke down in a bout of ragged coughs. Sam rushed over and held a cup of water to Aemon’s lips so he could take small sips.

“It is, Maester,” Sam replied when the coughing fit had subsided.

“Does he have an ailment that needs remedying?”

Sam looked to her, brows raised in expectancy. Bramble shook her head and walked over. She took the hand she was hiding behind her back and showed it to Sam.

The wooden item made Sam smile a bit more. “He has a gift for you, Maester Aemon.”

“Oh? Is it some light reading?”

Bramble smirked at the old man’s snark. She moved to his bedside and put the small object in his soft, withered hands. He felt it for a few seconds before an old laugh rasped out of him. “Why, is this what I think it is? A dragon’s head? It is!”

“Did you carve that, Bramb?” Sam asked. She nodded. His eyes flickered over to Aemon, making his smile slip. “But…er, how did you…?”

“It doesn’t matter now, Samwell,” Aemon said. He put the carved dragon’s head against his breast. “Thank you, Bramble.”

Though he could not see it, Bramble bowed. “You carved it? I didn’t know you were a woodworker,” said Sam as he inspected what he could of the dragon.

She nodded again and shrugged her shoulders in a double response. Bramble learned how to carve from her dad. They weren’t exquisite, but the charms and small figurines she carved and sold kept her afloat in Braavos and White Harbor. And since Aemon didn’t have that much long to live, she thought she’d revive the trait and give him something to hold onto until the next life came.

But it wasn’t as if Sam or anyone else would know that.

Bramble didn’t linger. For some reason, the death hanging over Maester Aemon made her uncomfortable to be around. Like it had unseen eyes of its own looking back at her. If it had always been that way, it ignored Bramble up until now. And if it hadn’t…

Well. Best not get into it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bramble liked The Labrynth a lot. And her dad carved her a staff for her tenth birthday so they could pretend to fight with magic in the backyard.


	14. Chapter 14

Bramble swung herself into the saddle and was handed the reins by the stable hand. Snow fell from the sky in thick, heavy flakes that stuck to everything it landed on. Hopefully it’d stay just snowfall and refrain from turning into a full-out storm. Not just yet. Not until she got back and could do something to shave Shireen.

Tormund was escorted out to the courtyard to Jon by Edd and Grenn. Everybody else present watched, too. In that moment, Bramble felt hatred from so many of the men that it gave her a headache.

Olly was one of the contributors. The boy glared at Tormund from the blacksmith’s station, feelings unchanged about the wildling.

Bramble wrote him a letter and left it on his cot before she came to the courtyard for departure. It was a poor attempt at getting him to see beyond heartache and hatred. She had written that she understood what it all felt like, but because of her own harbored hatred, she ended up here at Castle Black.

Maybe he hadn’t read it yet. Maybe he had and just didn’t care. Either way, Bramble just… _hoped_ that he’d be able to see the path he was on before it was too late.

When Olly realized that Bramble was staring at him, he looked her way. She offered a faint smile and a small wave. He briefly raised his hand in a farewell.

_I’ll be back,_ she wanted to say. _I promise._

Tormund drew her attention away from Olly by bringing the horse he was now on next to Bramble. “You’re looking grim, Little Crow. Haven’t ripped anything to shreds, lately?”

She gave him a sidelong glare. It was a mistake, for she still caught a glimpse of his shit-eating smirk. He always had on whenever he spoke to Bramble. Take the meeting yesterday, for example. The moment Bramble entered the room where Jon had those on the mission convene, Tormund had grinned and said, “Looks like Lord Snow is bringing the real muscle, then. At least I know I’ll be safe with the Little Crow protecting me.”

He still hadn’t told any of them about her identity. Bramble expected he wouldn’t, but it was still a relief to hear him refer to her in male terms.

Grenn voiced her thoughts perfectly as he rode up on her other side. “Piss off, wildling.”

“Can’t. Already pissed. Don’t worry; I won’t take too much of his attention away from you.”

This time Bramble slowly turned her head to Tormund and full-on scowled. His smirk only widened and, to make it worse, he added a wink.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Grenn asked frustratingly. Tormund just shrugged his snow-covered shoulders and pointed to the opening gates.

“Looks like we’re about to leave. And I have to say, Little Crow, I’m looking forward to our future conversations.”

Bramble flipped him off. It wasn’t satisfying, but it was better than nothing.

-

North of the Wall wasn’t kind. It was, as usual, too cold. Her nose bled constantly from the vile magic saturated in the air, and then the blood would quickly crust over and freeze in the temperatures. Because there wasn’t a solid, constant surface to write on, Bramble basically became an extra. Grenn was the only one who’d take the time to talk to her every once in a while, and even then sometimes it’d just be too cold to open any mouths.

And then they arrived at Hardhome.

Bramble could _feel_ the death permeating from the settlement miles away. The weight of it rolled across the ocean waves and into the ships Stannis had lent them. It made her muscles weak and stomach churn.

“You alright?” Grenn asked in a lowered voice. They and most of the Crows stood on deck, too anxious to do anything else. Bramble was pinching her bleeding nose in a futile attempt to keep it from spilling. “You…you don’t look well.”

It wasn’t an untrue observation. And it didn’t help that Bramble had started her period the previous night. So she was bleeding from not just one, but two places. Which was just peachy. Cramps combined with the overwhelming, impending atmosphere of death really made her day.

Bramble answered Grenn by holding her hand flat and tilting it from side-to-side. “Well—what’s the matter?”

A dark mass on the horizon caught her attention. Bramble fixed her gaze on the black, rolling blanket that almost completely covered the shoreline. It stretched across for a good mile. And the longer Bramble looked at it, the more she saw. There were deep purples and blues and reds, like sunlight hitting gasoline. Only its hues were far, far _more._ Her brain said that she shouldn’t be seeing these colors on such a void-like canvas. But because there was so much— _so much—_ death awaiting that it had taken on a more complex state of being.

Bramble could already hear the screams. Could already feel a coldness falling upon her that surpassed the weather’s.

This had been a terrible, terrible idea.

Stepping foot on the settlement was going to land Bramble in a world of hurt.

“Bramb?” Grenn looked to Hardhome and back to her, unsure of why she had started acting so strangely. Well. She always acted strangely. _Stranger,_ she should say.

Bramble finally tore her gaze away from the massacre site and turned to Grenn. He really did appear concerned. Why was he always so concerned about her? She didn’t ask for it.

She lied to him by gesturing to her nose. “Ah,” Grenn nodded. “Yeah, it’s been bleedin’ a lot. Prolly a pain in the ass.”

Yeah. Bramble was bleeding _a lot._ Ha ha.

“If things go to shit, Bramb, stick by me, alright?”

Both her brows raised in half surprise, half skepticism. Did he honestly think she couldn’t take care of herself?

He saw what her expression meant and chuckled. “Nah, don’t mean it that way. Need you protectin’ me, yeah? Especially if we have to fight that giant again.”

Bramble let out an amused huff despite her plugged nose. Grenn was being funny, but she realized what he really meant. Brothers of the Night’s Watch stuck together. If it came down to it, they’d choose their own side over the wildling’s.

But he didn’t know what was coming. None of them did.

Except for Mag Mar. Did he remember what Bramble showed him? Did he even care? Or had he just accepted the fate of all those who sought shelter at Hardhome?

Was he even still alive?

Jon walked up to them, interrupting Bramble’s thoughts. He liked to do that a lot. “We’re going to be sailing a bit further in before anchoring and taking rowboats from there. Best get prepared.”

Bramble and Grenn nodded. They both looked back to Hardhome, each seeing something different. While Grenn probably saw people gathering to watch as southern ships drew near, she only saw the dark beast of death, maw opening to catch all those who fell.

-

There wasn’t enough daylight to make it seem like daytime, but it’d be another few hours before it actually got dark. It trapped them in a sort of limbo. Not light, not night. Somewhere in between.

Bramble had gotten ahold of herself as their rowboat neared the shore of Hardhome. Death had broken apart the closer they got, but it still didn’t bring her any comfort. Now she was just able to see the faces of everyone who was going to die.

When the boat halted on the shoreline, Jon was the first to get out, followed by Tormund and the rest of them. The present animosity and fear made Bramble’s teeth buzz. Death swirled everywhere around her.

They walked further into the settlement with purpose. Bramble couldn’t help but be on her guard. If given the chance, the wildlings around them would gladly rip her and anyone wearing black to shreds. And with the cramps she was having gave them a head start on that.

A whistle pierced through the still air. The crowd of wildlings in front of them parted for a man with a staff and a human skull placed over his face. Oh, right. This was going to happen.

“Lord of Bones,” Tormund greeted, stepping forward to take the front position of their contingent. “It’s been a long time.”

Through the skull, Bramble saw cold eyes regarding Tormund with disgust. “Last time I saw you, the pretty Crow was your prisoner.” They all looked to Jon. “It’s the other way around now. What happened?”

“War.”

“War? You call that a war? The greatest army the North had ever seen, cut to pieces by some southern king.”

Tormund wasn’t bothered. “We should gather the elders. Find somewhere quiet to talk.”

A snarl. “You don’t give the orders here.”

“I’m not giving an order,” Tormund explained with infinite patience.

The Lord of Bones did a once-over on him. “Why aren’t you in chains?”

“He’s not my prisoner,” Jon explained.

“No? What is he?”

“We’re allies.”

The hair on the back of Bramble’s neck stood on end as tension reached a new level.

The Lord of Bones pointed his clawed staff at Tormund. “You _fucking_ traitor.”

Grenn, Bramble and Edd shifted towards each other, hands straining against the instinct to grab the hilt of their swords.

“You fight for the Crows now?” the Lord of Bones demanded to know.

Tormund took a step closer, demeanor unchanged but voice taking on a new tone. “I don’t fight for the Crows.”

“We’re not here to fight,” Jon said. Bramble noted that he shone with something. It was faint, but in the overcast atmosphere she could see it more clearly. “We’re here to talk.”

“Oh, is that right?” The Lord of Bones tapped his skull-capped staff against Tormund’s chest. “You and the pretty Crow do a lot of talking, don’t you? And when you’re done talking, do you get down on your knees and suck his c—”

Tormund’s sudden movement caught even Bramble off-guard, and she was the only person who knew what he was about to do. The Lord of Bone’s staff was viciously ripped away by Tormund. The wildling leader didn’t have time to react before Tormund delivered a swift kick to the gut that sent him flying.

And then the Lord of Bones was killed by his own staff wielded by Tormund Giantsbane.

The sprawling death rippled as it claimed its first victim of the day.

Tormund dropped the blood-covered staff next to its former owner. Oddly enough, the tension had dissipated substantially. Like as if somebody dying resolved a major problem. It wasn’t gone entirely, but now Bramble didn’t feel the need to have her sword in her grip.

“Gather the elders, and let’s talk,” Tormund said in the same calm voice he had used previously. Bramble suppressed the notion to smile a little. Tormund was unhinged. But maybe in the right way? That didn’t make much sense.

Either way, it got the crowd to carve a pathway to the meeting house without any further trouble.

-

The wildling elders—who were less like elders and more like chiefs and the children of chiefs—gathered in the circular hut that was as tall as it was wide. Bramble didn’t recognize any of them, but she suspected one of the women of being that one lady who everybody liked but died by the end of the episode. Death pooled under her feet, just as it did almost everyone else’s.

There wasn’t a kind eye regarding them. Until everyone gathered there was complete silence, save for the crackle of the fire in the middle of the hut. Grenn was shifting too uncomfortably next to Bramble, which made her irritated. Couldn’t he just stand still and at least act like he wasn’t nervous?

A larger portion around the hut’s door swung open, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. But it wasn’t a door for humans. It was a door for giants.

Oh. That was mint.

An unfamiliar giant stooped below the top of the crude door frame. He surveyed the room with small, dark eyes that fell on Bramble and stayed a little too long.

When he moved aside, another massive form entered the hut. Bramble realized that this was probably why Grenn was so antsy.

Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg stood up to his full height, emanating a powerful presence that demanded respect. He didn’t even spare a glance at Jon and Tormund. Bramble and Mag immediately locked gazes. What was he thinking about her being here? What did _she_ even think?

Mag took a step that immediately brought him to the Crows. More specifically, Bramble and Grenn. She heard Grenn start to breathe heavily. Was he going to say something about them? About her? About what she showed him?

Questions and doubted lanced through Bramble’s mind, freezing her to the spot. Not only were Mag’s eyes on her, but everyone in the hut was staring into her back. Jon, Edd, Tormund and the other Crows knew the story about how they supposedly beat him back through the gates. Except why would a giant be glad to see somebody who defeated him?

_They’ll probably have to be told something else entirely here soon._ Bramble thought with a sinking feeling.

Mag placed a ginormous hand over her head and curled his fist so just his pointer finger was outstretched. Then he lowered it onto Bramble’s shaggy head until she felt some of the weight resting on the top of her skull.

“Truth.” He rumbled the same word he had in the tunnel, only this time it wasn’t posed as a question.

Bramble waited for his finger to lift back off before offering a respectful nod. Mag glanced at Grenn and bared his teeth. She wasn’t quite sure if it was meant to be threatening in a real way or he just had a sick sense of humor. Either way, it made Grenn pale and take a half-step back.

Mag joined Wun Wun at the back of the hut. Bramble faced the fire once more, keeping her eyes locked on the flame so things didn’t appear more suspicious than they already were. Jon didn’t let what just happened linger, though. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“My name’s Jon Snow. I’m Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He surveyed the room full of wildlings. “We’re not friends. We’ve never been friends. We won’t become friends today. This isn’t about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a seven hundred-foot-wall between you and what’s out there.” He pointed beyond the hut.

“You built that wall to keep us out,” said the wildling woman.

“Since when do the Crows give two shits if we live?” the Thenn chief muttered darkly.

“In normal times we would,” Jon replied, “but these aren’t normal times. The White Walkers don’t care if a man’s Free Folk or Crow. We’re all the same to them. Meat for their armies. But together, we can beat them.”

The woman snorted. “Beat the White Walkers?” she asked incredulously. “Good luck with that. Run from them, maybe.”

Jon pulled out a black leather satchel from within his cloak. The Free Folk shifted in preparation to retaliate, but Jon only held it out to the woman for her to take. “It’s not a trick,” he promised.

The woman took it and examined the contents within. “It’s a gift for those who join us,” Jon said as he walked back to the Crow’s side. The woman took out a shining black dagger and looked to him for explanation. “Dragonglass. A man of the Night’s Watch used one of these daggers to kill a walker.”

“You saw this?” the Thenn questioned.

“No. But I trust the man.”

“There are old stories about dragonglass,” the woman said, one of her fingers running across the flat of the dagger.

“There are stories about ice spiders as big as hounds,” the Thenn countered.

“And with the things we’ve seen you don’t believe it?” she posed back.

Jon focused the topic again. “Come back with me, and I’ll share these weapons.”

“Come with you where?” asked the woman. Bramble glanced at the death at her feet again. It had already grown larger. All of theirs had.

“There are good lands south of the Wall,” Jon replied. “The Night’s Watch will let you through the tunnel and allow your people to farm those lands.”

Murmurs from the Free Folk rippled quietly through the hut. Jon continued before somebody could stop him. “I knew Mance Rayder. He never wanted a war with the Night’s Watch; he wanted a new life for his people. For you. We’re prepared to give you that new life.”

“If?” the woman followed up, aware that there were stipulations to the proposal.

“If you join us when the real war begins.”

“And where is Mance?” the Thenn questioned. There was a short silence before Jon answered.

“He died.”

“How?”

Another span of silence. “I put an arrow through his heart.”

Bramble didn’t get defensive even as the hut burst with emotion from the Free Folk. She was too busy trying to push out the memory of Mance dying, of how death attacked whatever left him like a predator falling onto its prey. A _sakripisyo._

Tormund stepped in calmed them down. The Thenn made a threat, but Bramble wasn’t listening to him. She was looking at their death, again. It was growing, growing, growing.

_He is coming._

The Thenn unsheathed a dagger and came for Jon, but Tormund interceded. “None of you saw Mance die,” he spat. “I did. The southern king who broke our army, Stannis, wanted to burn him alive to send a message. Jon Snow defied the king’s orders. His arrow was _mercy._ What he did took courage. And that’s what we need today. To have courage to make peace with men we’ve been killing for generations.”

“I lost my father, my uncle and two brothers fighting the damn Crows,” the woman growled.

Jon finally lost his patience. “I’m not asking you to forget your dead! I’ll never forget mine. We lost forty-eight brothers the night that Mance attacked the Wall. But I’m asking you to think about your children, now. They’ll never have children of their own if we don’t band together. The Long Night is coming, and the dead come with it. No cold can stop him. The Free Folk can’t stop him! The Night’s Watch can’t stop him and all the southern kings can’t stop him! Only together, all of us—and even then it might not be enough but at least we’ll give the fuckers a fight.”

It was a true and strong speech. Bramble barely paid any attention to it. Her nose had started bleeding again, and with it came a cold that penetrated the warmth of the hut.

“You vouch for this man, Tormund?” the woman asked.

Tormund stared at Jon for a while, then said, “He’s prettier than both my daughters, but he knows how to fight. He’s young, but he knows how to lead. He didn’t have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us, and we _need him.”_

The bloody nose intensified. Bramble turned away from the fire so nobody would see it gushing. She could distinctly feel Mag’s eyes watching her.

“My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a Crow,” the Thenn growled.

“So would mine,” the woman said resignedly. “But fuck ‘em, they’re dead.” She sauntered up to Jon and sighed. “I’ll never trust a man in black.” Her head turned to Tormund. “But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is the way, we’re with you.”

Tormund addressed the entire hut and vowed to them. “This is the way.”

“I’m with Tormund,” another wildling said. “At least with King Crow, there’s a chance.”

Another bout of cold blasted through Bramble, this time taking her breath away. She seized up and grabbed Grenn’s arm so she wouldn’t collapse.

_So, so cold._

“Bramb?” Grenn whispered. “Is every—”

The cold _lanced_ through Bramble like a spear, turning her organs and bones to ice. She coughed a sudden spray of blood and fell on all fours. Hot liquid streamed from her nose like a running faucet. Whatever conversation Jon and the Free Folk were having paused as all gazes once again returned to her.

But this time Bramble didn’t care about who was watching her. Because…because something singular had set its attention on Bramble’s very soul. It was the cold that swept off a frozen lake, it was the wind from atop the Wall, it was…it was…

The Night King.

Bramble lifted her head and regarded everyone with unhidden, uncollected fear. She tasted blood on her lips and terror in her heart. Of course Bramble knew what was going to happen, that the massacre would always be a massacre. But she never thought she’d feel this new and terrifying sensation that completely overwhelmed her.

Unable to stand because of the unyielding weakness, Bramble crawled closer to the flames and wrote in the soft dirt with a gloved, shaking finger stained with her blood.

THEY’RE COMING

Jon crouched down beside Bramble and touched her shoulder. “What’s this supposed to mean, Bramb?” He asked like he already knew the answer.

“Truth,” Mag Mar rumbled from the back. “Get to ships. Hurry. Dead coming.”

“This is the seer?” the woman prompted. A new tone had taken over her voice. One of well-based concern. “The one that showed you the vision?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t say it was a _Crow—”_

Bramble was struck again by the cold. It wasn’t as severe as the others, because it was a forewarning. A threat. A promise of destruction.

And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bramble doesn't know Karsi's actual name because I don't think they ever actually say it? And if they did she wasn't around to hear it.


	15. Chapter 15

Questions weren’t asked. There wasn’t time.

Bramble was caught up in the whirlwind, helping the Free Folk onto rowboats and trying to maintain some sort of order. When word spread that the dead were coming, those who remained stubborn about staying at Hardhome were suddenly clambering aboard.

The Night King’s cold came in waves, each one giving Bramble the sense that the army was getting closer and closer. It scared her enough to want to pile onto a rowboat with the rest. She could get away with it for being in such a weak state. And man, the cramps were _killer._

But Bramble stayed and put children into the arms of their parents, grandparents, siblings, strangers. Leaving wasn’t an option when there were so many who needed defending.

Despite small amounts of death winking out of existence as soon as they got into a boat, it laid thick upon the settlement. They weren’t going to be able to save everyone. Not when thousands still waited to get on board beyond the wooden walls of Hardhome. Not when there were just as many who refused to believe the words of men dressed in black.

“…You listen to her. She’s going to take care of you.” The woman from the group of elders lifted her children into a rowboat behind Bramble. She paused and listened.

“I want to stay here with you,” one of the daughters protested. Her skin was pale against the darkening sky, and she looked at her mother with scared blue eyes.

“I need to get the old folks on the boats,” the woman said. “I’m right behind you, I promise.”

The death under her rippled with the shore’s waves, like oil from a spill.

Bramble grabbed her shoulder and got her attention. The woman turned, face growing stoic as she saw who was touching her. “What is it, Crow?”

_Go,_ Bramble mouthed, gesturing to her daughters.

“I can’t do that. There are still too many people here.” The woman kissed her daughters on their foreheads before sending the boat off. When they departed from the shore, the woman regarded Bramble with masked sadness. “We have a duty to do, little seer, as you’ve seen. Best get back to it.”

The women started walking back to help others get in the approaching boats, passing Jon and Tormund while—

A screech surpassing anything ever heard filled Bramble’s head. She stumbled and silently cried out, instinctively clasping her ears to thwart it. Unbearable coldness burst from the ground, fell from the sky, and squeezed Bramble until she thought she might explode. The noise grew and grew, and Jon was shaking her and speaking words Bramble couldn’t understand and blood spilled from her nose and death roiled into an almost tangible swarm and—

And then Bramble had full control of her body, again. The unnatural sound still rang in her ears, but now she could hear dogs barking and the clamor of people getting into the boats.

Jon was tightly grasping her shoulders. Dark brown eyes met dark green ones. “They’re here,” Jon whispered to her. “Aren’t they?”

Bramble’s blooded lips twisted. She nodded.

He helped her stand up and began shouting orders. From the west came a fierce, controlled storm that poured over the cliffside meant to protect Hardhome. It fell in predatory quickness, and with it came a swift and savage massacre.

Panic started almost immediately. There was no suspense, this time, no doubt or confusion. Everybody knew who was here. Bramble shook off the disorientation and started grabbing the children being pushed forward by frantic parents, handing them off to strangers on the rowboats.

Stannis’ soldiers manning the oars were overtaken with their own terror. One shouted at his compatriot, “We gotta get out of here! It’s too late! Start rowing!”

Bramble grabbed him by the rim of his breastplate and delivered a hard slap to the cheek. He careened back, dazed by the hit. She snapped her eyes to the other, who looked just as scared but a bit more composed. “We won’t, sir. We won’t go until our boat’s full!” he promised, voice catching halfway.

The storm swept through with a mind of its own. Screams from the west became louder as people attempted to flee through the gates. At this point Bramble was basically throwing wildlings into boats. She couldn’t feel her feet from the frigid water, and her nose hadn’t stopped bleeding. There were more children, though, more mothers and fathers and those who _needed_ to escape death. Because death was everywhere, consuming lives beyond the gates.

The only sound more frightening than thousands of people screaming was when they suddenly stopped.

There was a vileness behind those walls. Something born of hate and ice and magic too old to comprehend. Nothing about it was human. There was the presence of death, and then there was the _absence_ of it. A void in reality.

Shrieking and snarling wights breached the gates by climbing atop and underneath it. Thunder cracked in the sky and snow cut like razors in the sudden wind. Through it all, Bramble heard Jon shout a command.

“Night’s Watch! With me!”

She pushed against the mass of fleeing wildlings and raced to Jon’s side. As soon as her sword unsheathed, familiar fire blossomed in her chest. It staved off the relentless cold and gifted Bramble with energy she had lost throughout the day.

But would it be enough?

Bramble cleaved through her first wight, ignoring its foul, inhuman aura. Jon and Tormund ran a few paces ahead of her, fighting their way through the undead to try and stop them from getting through the gates.

_Where’s the woman?_

“Bramb!” Grenn shouted suddenly from a hundred paces away. “Behind you!”

She turned and caught the rotting corpse with her blade just as it launched itself at her. Just as it slammed into the ground, her foot slammed into its head and shattered the skull.

Grenn and Bramble put their backs to one another and brandished their swords. Jon and Tormund were trying to patch up holes in the gate; they fought the ones that had gotten through. The fire burned brighter with each swing, and for a split-second she thought they could actually hold the wights off until more boats returned to get the Free Folk on.

And then Bramble felt _them_ watching.

Through the haze of icy snow and smoke, four figures on horseback stood at the cliff’s edge. When Grenn and Bramble spotted them, he appropriately yelled, “Oh, fucking hell!”

A new wave of wights hit, this time so large in number that they separated the two. Grenn was pushed towards the docks while Bramble had to retreat in the direction of the cliff.

_It’s just what they want._

Mag Mar and Wun Wun burst from the hut, roaring and tearing wights off them. Bramble caught a glimpse of Jon and the Thenn running into the decimated building for what she most likely assumed was the dragonglass. _Damn,_ she should have grabbed it when she had the chance.

Except chances were a rare thing, these days.

Bramble cut through one wight after the other, unable to keep her ground with all the directions they were coming from. Death took the living more quickly than she could fight.

She tried charging through the corpses when she had the chance, deciding that it didn’t matter if she got cut up along the way. The separation between her and the rest became wider and wider with each passing moment. Bramble could barely see Grenn fighting in the storm. Edd had joined him, but their fighting was rapidly proving fruitless as the dead outgrew the living.

_You need to get back! Run, now!_

With a hoarse growl, Bramble raised her sword in front of her and began charging through. Corpses flew left and right, some of them cut in half and some thrown back by the sheer force of being hit. But she was doing it! She was going to make it—

A frozen hand grabbed the back of Bramble’s hair and threw her several feet backward. She hit the snowy ground hard, but thankfully her breath remained intact. Rolling over and standing upright, Bramble found herself facing one of the Night King’s generals. An icy spear stood at his side, ready to impale her should she prove too problematic.

He didn’t want to kill her like anybody else. Bramble was _wanted._ The Ice King watched and waited to have whatever power she held for his own.

Well. Maybe getting impaled wasn’t all that bad.

Bramble rushed forward at the general with full awareness that her common sword wouldn’t stand a chance against his weapon. She dodged the first swing and took an open spot in his side to slice, but he moved significantly faster than she had anticipated. Her sword clashed against his spear and shattered instantly, jarring the bones in Bramble’s hands and arms.

She prepared to fight the general in hand-to-hand combat. In a blur, though, her throat was suddenly in his clutches. The general lifted Bramble off the ground and viciously extinguished the fire keeping her so alive and alert.

Though Bramble struggled, her energy had left her. There was nothing but cold.

The general made a pleased, raspy noise and squeezed her throat harder. Bramble’s eyes widened in horror as something _moved_ from within, crawling up and down her throat and grating against the ice. It was followed by an invading force that turned even her insides numb. Blood rose from the back of her mouth and spilled out onto loosely parted lips. Whatever was happening suffocated any chance that a fire could ignite and combat the violation.

Bramble’s arms and legs went limp. The general wasn’t squeezing hard enough to choke her out, but the ritual taking place killed without killing. It sapped life away to replace it with something else. She glanced down and, for the first time in her life, saw death dripping from her boots and smattering black onto the snow.

_Just accept it,_ she absently thought. _This is what you’ve always wanted._

_They’re going to twist you into something horrendous,_ another voice countered. _They’re going to use you to kill. To conquer._

_But you’ll already be dead by then. It won’t matter._

_Will you_ really _be dead? Or will you see what you’re commanded to do through your own eyes?_

Bramble let her eyes drift shut. It didn’t seem so cold, anymore, now that she thought of it. The general made another noise. It welcomed her to the fold.

_Rest. It’s done._

The high-pitched scream of Valyrian steel meeting an ice spear shot through the air, followed by an unseen force that struck the general holding Bramble.

His focus swayed, and the hand lessened in its grip. The cold within subsided for less than a moment.

A small flame ignited. It made her feel the _pain,_ the _agony_ of what was being done.

Bramble’s eyes shot open.

_You’re not done, yet._

The general looked back to her, and she relished in seeing his shock a second before the flame turned into a **_fire._**

The invasion within was scorched away an instant later. Bramble’s world burst into furious colors of red and orange as fire exploded outward from her and destroyed everything in its path. The general screamed and screamed, but his ancient magic couldn’t defend against the sheer, unrelenting power. He disintegrated into nothing but icy ash, weapon and all.

When the roiling flames dissipated and finally descended from a roar to a murmur, Bramble saw that the explosion hadn’t just replaced the snow on the ground with jagged, charred marks a hundred feet around. The air was completely dry; snow fell everywhere except above Bramble. She was unscathed, too, and her clothes remained untouched.

But something was wrong. The fire had done its job and yet—and yet—

Bramble fell to her knees and clawed at her throat. It was being burned, burned away and there was nothing she could do to stop it because the fire wasn’t in her control.

There was so much blood. It came from her nose, mouth and ears, as hot as the molten lava coating her throat. And this—this was how she was going to die. Not by the design of the Night King, but by her own incapability to control the thing that saved her life in the first place.

She tried to manipulate it to her will and force it to stop. The fire defied her, though, and was it really meant to be controlled in the first place? Or did the insatiable rage have a mind of its own?

Just _what_ was inside Bramble?

Blackness edged her vision. Bramble would have laughed at the irony of it all, had she not been in such terrible anguish. The fire had, by now, spread from her throat and was consuming every cell, every molecule she was composed of. It was only a matter of time.

“Bramble!”

Dad shouted her name. Dad. Clear as day.

The world became sharp with lucidity. Bramble breathed through the flames inside, using the cool air to combat it. The fire finally listened, solidifying back into her throat and doing what it was meant to do all along.

Cleanse.

Through the blood and ash, the snow and smoke, Bramble tilted her head back and screamed.

-

_Mom and Bramble both sipped on their own Starbucks frappuccinos and Dad drank an iced coffee. They were boarding for Hawaii in forty-five minutes. Despite the layover in Vancouver, Bramble and her dad already had their matching, ugly vacation shirts on. Mom didn’t want to look like a tourist, so she opted to keep hers indefinitely packed in the suitcase._

_“I’m going to come home a professional surfer,” Dad said, “and become a hero of Thunder Bay.”_

_“You’re going to come home a professional beet,” Mom retorted without looking up from her phone. “Because you’re a pasty little white boy.”_

_“Excuse me? My Basque blood is offended.”_

_Bramble chuckled through the green straw in her mouth. Dad nudged her and gestured to Mom. “Can you believe this, kiddo? Your mother, an unbeliever in my dreams.”_

_“Yeah Dad, okay.”_

_He put his arm around her and planted a kiss atop her head. “We can become professional surfers together.”_

Somebody was half-pulling, half-dragging Bramble to her feet. It took a couple of tries, but she eventually got her footing and tiredly ran with her arm hung over a pair of shoulders.

Death had dispersed by now, for it claimed most of what it was promised. The undead were all around them, and from atop the cliff an unearthly screech echoed across Hardhome.

“Run faster, Bramb!” Grenn shouted harshly. Of course it was Grenn. Who else would it have been?

She looked over her shoulder at the mass of wights falling from the precipice and landing in the heaps of thousands at the bottom. A few seconds later their own shrieks put the step into Bramble’s feet.

Freak yeah, she’d run faster.

The gates keeping back thousands more undead crashed to the ground. Bramble took her arm off Grenn’s shoulder, stumbled, and used the present fire burning unwaveringly in her chest to move onward.

Cries from the remaining Free Folk spread throughout the settlement as their dwindling forces were finally overwhelmed by corpses. Bramble kept her eyes on the single rowboat waiting at the docks; if she looked around she’d be too tempted to save the souls around her.

It wasn’t as if she could close her eyes and ignore it all, though. A wight attacked an older wilding man ahead and to her left. He fended it off with a small axe, but it wouldn’t last. Other corpses saw the fight and began closing in for the slaughter.

Crap.

“Bramble, no!” Grenn’s yells were fruitless as Bramble veered from the path. He slowed, hesitated, swore, and joined her.

The man’s neck was about to be torn open when Bramble intervened with a ruthless kick to its decomposing stomach. The wight snarled as its body messily snapped in half, dried-out guts scattering across the snow.

The fire was returning, just as it had in the beginning of the battle. Bramble lifted the man up by the collar and linked her arm with his so they wouldn’t get separated. Grenn did the same on the other side, swearing up a storm as they ran.

The undead were practically biting at their heels. A few times their bony fingers grabbed onto cloaks and furs, but it wasn’t enough to stop them. Despite the detour, the three of them made it to the last rowboat anxiously waiting at the dock. Bramble threw the old man in rougher than she should have and jumped in alongside Grenn. No sooner than they had landed in the boat did Jon, Tormund and Edd dive in as well.

“Go! Go! Go!” Jon bellowed. The rowboat pushed off, but two giants followed its course. Mag Mar and Wun Wun fought off wights climbing them as they waded out into the sea, unaffected by its resistance. Mag was down a hand, for one clutched a person close to his chest. When he neared the boat, he dropped the body into Bramble’s lap.

The woman— _the fucking woman—_ was unconscious, but alive. Death didn’t sow at her feet, anymore.

Mag Mar had been shown a vision. Bramble didn’t think he’d remember a single face of those who died in it.

She placed the woman in the care of the other wilding man and stood upright with the rest. They helplessly watched as every single person abandoned at Hardhome was killed beneath a sunless sky. Death winked out one by one as wildlings were picked off.

Bramble’s eyes clouded with unwanted tears. What had she even prevented? Had she tried at all?

As the last person rattled off their dying breath, a sole figure walked to the edge of the dock they had departed from.

He was unmade. Vile magic permeated from his being, corrupted and older than the construction of time. Blue eyes not of this world penetrated Bramble, threatening to extinguish the fire she had fought so hard to regain.

It was silent, save for waves breaking on the sides of the rowboat.

The Night King turned his head to examine the army about to be raised. Instead of death blanketing Hardhome, there were corpses laid to waste. He looked back at them and slowly raised his arms to begin the summoning. There was nothing human about his actions. Nothing that would have hinted he felt anything at all.

A darkness unlike death ruptured from the ground, grasping with claws and wriggling like tentacles to find bodies. Thousands came from the depths of the unknown to wrap around their prey, their new possessions. A hand flew to Bramble’s mouth to stifle the horror she alone was witnessing. This wasn’t a forsaken usage of death. This wasn’t even death. For though death was sometimes frightening to witness in action, it wasn’t evil. It wasn’t a force that disobeyed its own laws. And it wasn’t the same color of the thing currently attaching itself to the dead.

What _was_ this?

Bodies started twitching. Started sitting upright. The dark entity surged into each and every corpse with such power that it made Bramble weak in the knees. The fire inside recoiled from the possessing, adding truth to the fact that this was against nature, against gods and the universe.

And then thousands rose, quiet as the death that took their original souls.

Bramble sat back down and hunched over. Her arms crossed tightly over her cramping stomach and she rested her bloody head on the edge of the rowboat. The closer she curled in upon herself, she closer she could feel the fire’s warmth. Maybe it would dry the tears from her eyes, too.

There Bramble stared blankly into the ocean’s depths until unconsciousness finally fell.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be gentle with me, I love canon divergence


	16. Chapter 16

The ship creaked and swayed. Whatever sounds from the outside world were muffled by four small walls that allowed privacy.

Or imprisonment.

Bramble stared up at the wooden ceiling. Plush pillows settled behind her head and soft, heavy furs were used as blankets on the bed she rested on. It was borderline uncomfortable, since the fire within provided a fair amount of heat. It was like a little, unseen Calcifer now inhabited Bramble’s chest. If only it were like him.

Passing out on the rowboat—and staying passed out—hadn’t been intentional. But enough time went by that the truth revealed itself all on its own. Bramble found herself undressed down to her smallclothes underneath the blanket. The binding she wore to keep her breasts strapped down was still intact. Cloth padding had been placed underneath by a stranger to catch the menstruation blood flowing. Gross that Bramble sat in a wet patch, but good that there was something preventing any further stains.

The blood from her face had also been wiped clean, and from what she could tell there hadn’t been anymore nosebleeds.

Nobody had come to see Bramble from the time she awoke. It gave her the chance to suppress the embarrassment, the shame of lying, and let her mind run wild with ideas of what they were going to do with a traitor.

Her black garbs were draped over the back of a chair, but the sword was nowhere—

Oh. Right. Bramble didn’t have a sword, anymore.

The inside of her throat hurt with a type of sore pain she hadn’t experienced. Bramble was familiar with the aftermath of being choked, but this was different. Like a pulled muscle mixed with a burn mixed with gargling gravel.

Bramble remembered screaming. Screaming with such volume and strength that _somebody_ on this ship must have heard it.

But she couldn’t scream. No. She could barely do more than make a hissing noise. Bramble was mute. Voiceless. Wordless.

And too afraid to try and speak.

The door unlocked and slowly opened. For a second, Bramble considered pretending to be asleep again. It’d give her a bit longer to process what was going on and avoid the harsh truth.

Jon stepped through, alone. Seeing him made Bramble keep her eyes open and decide to face whatever came next. This was Jon. He’d be fair. He was always fair.

They stared at each other as he closed the door behind him. Several seconds passed before Jon spoke. “You’re awake.”

Bramble gave the barest of nods. He didn’t appear angry, but there was a look about him she hadn’t ever seen.

Jon made a few short strides and sat down at the foot of the bed. When Bramble made no move to act, he eventually drug a hand down the side of his face and loudly sighed.

“Bramb. What in _seven hells_ is going on?”

She mirrored the sigh and gave her head a small shake. “Grenn tells me that you _stopped_ Mag the Mighty in that tunnel with your bare hands and made him swear that he wouldn’t tell. Then we go to Hardhome and all of _that_ happens! I don’t even know where to start. You—you knowing that the Night King was coming and...and then the explosion! You _killed_ a general with fire! Fire that came from you, Bramble. I saw it, we all saw it.”

Jon opened and closed his mouth, struggling to get words out. “The Night King wanted you. And I need to know why.

“Oh. And not to mention that you’re a fucking girl.”

Bramble hadn’t even been yelled at; Jon was just exclaiming in general. Yet his chastisement felt like whips on her back. It made Bramble painfully aware of just how much she respected Jon Snow and the depth of her loyalty to him.

It was too bad the bed couldn’t swallow Bramble whole.

Jon’s brows drew together. “You do realize what the Night’s Watch would have me do to you? A woman who joined our ranks under the guise of a man?”

There wasn’t a night that went by that Bramble hadn’t thought about it.

She only stared back at Jon. The unresponsiveness visibly upset him, and he stood up and strode over to the porthole. The weight of yet another giant problem added to the Lord Commander’s shoulders. Not only was Bramble a woman, but one that was wanted by the Night King because of her weird and powerful abilities.

“Why did you lie, Bramble? Why have you been hiding all this the whole time?”

Why, indeed.

Bramble ground her teeth together in frustration. How could she possibly explain all of this? Without a voice?

Except.

No. Bramble wasn’t even _sure_ if she had a voice to speak with. And what dangers might she unleash if she could? So much had already been altered without a voice; how much chaos would they be plunged into if Bramble talked?

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Jon muttered. His expression was hard and resolute. “But until I get answers, you’re confined to these quarters until we return to Eastwatch by the Sea. You will be bound when we dock, and a trial at Castle Black will take place to decide what to do with you.”

He moved back toward the door, refusing to look at Bramble. She wasn’t able see any ever-present aura hanging over his shoulders. The longer she stared at the empty space, the more she realized that ever since fleeing Hardhome, nobody had an aura.

Or that Bramble just couldn’t see them.

She suddenly felt vulnerable and small. Something that Bramble had grown so used to relying on was just…gone. Taken away without notice. Without permission. And all that was left was a tangible, hollow space.

And she was going to lose much, much more if Jon walked out that door.

Bramble sat up, letting the heavy blankets slip and feeling the cool air of the cabin meet her skin. She ran fingers through her hair, took a breath, and did what she hadn’t done in over three years.

Speak.

“Jon.”

He stopped, hand on the doorknob. When Jon eventually looked over his shoulder at Bramble, brown eyes were visibly filled with shock and disbelief.

Bramble mirrored his expression. Had she just…what had…she _talked._

“You’re not a mute?” Jon quietly asked. He was suppressing his initial anger, but it bled through into his demeanor.

“Not anymore,” Bramble replied. Her voice sounded foreign in her ears. Was it always that way? It shouldn’t be this scratchy, this painful.

Jon took a hesitant step forward. “What…what do you mean, _not anymore?”_ His cheeks reddened from Bramble’s lack of clothes. She didn’t care. Not at this point.

“I mean,” Bramble said slowly, trying not to overwhelm herself with the returned ability, “that this is the first I’ve spoken in a long time.” She closed her eyes. “It hurts. Real bad.”

“Will it stay?”

Bramble shrugged and rubbed her throat in a futile attempt to alleviate the ache. “Don’t know. But I guess I should explain in case it goes.” Opening her eyes again, she said to Jon, “Better go get Grenn and Edd. And Tormund. And that lady, too. The one who—” _who was supposed to die._ “The one on the boat with us.”

“Karsi?”

Bramble nodded. Right. That was her name.

“And you’ll explain everything?” Jon questioned. “Everything about what happened?”

“As best as I can,” Bramble muttered.

Jon stood quietly for a moment, sighed again, and then left the room.

Bramble sat in the bed and processed what just occurred. “I can talk,” she said aloud. “I’m talking. Right now. _Sinasabi ko.”_

A hand covered her mouth to stifle the sudden burst of giggles. They weren’t exactly gleeful; more like disbelieving and partially frightened. But Bramble could _hear_ the giggles. They were no longer pitiful hisses and dead branches scraping against one another. It was real.

Jon and the others would be coming back, soon. Bramble didn’t want to stay undressed for _that_ awkward and confusing conversation.

Throwing the heavy blankets to the side, Bramble moved to grab clothes from the pack next to her clothes. She grabbed clean cloth pads and stripped off the stained underwear. Hopefully Jon would be kind enough to let Bramble bathe when they returned to Castle Black, seeing as she was now unofficially a prisoner.

Bramble dressed back into her shirt and trousers, stuffing the cloth padding inside to keep from bleeding through. Her period was waning, but every girl knew that it always faked its disappearance before vengefully striking one last time.

She didn’t get dressed into any other layers. It was too hot for anything more.

After making the bed and repositioning the black garbs that might never get worn again, Bramble realized she was mumbling odd phrases to herself. Muddled reassurances and quotes and outspoken narrations as to what she was doing.

Bramble worried that there might be something missing in her head. Maybe the fire burned away a bit of her sanity in its destruction.

What if she just…blew up again? Right here on the ship? How had she even been able to do it? Everything was a blur, looking back on what happened. One second there was nothing but cold darkness, the next was blinding, bursting fire.

Dad had spoken, though. Dad.

Bramble grumbled at the heat within. It didn’t give cause for sweat, strangely enough, but was as if a furnace was on full power inside her. Like the sun was beating down from the inside out.

She moved to the porthole and pushed it open. Northern ocean air swept in, bringing relief with its cooling touch. Bramble sighed as a spray of icy seawater hit her face. She briefly considered tearing the porthole window completely off and hanging out of it, but that would probably be a little too drastic.

So Bramble stood there, waiting for Jon to return with the others and watching waves roll by. Everything leading up to this had happened so fast. It felt like an eternity, sure, except Bramble had only been at Castle Black as a brother of the Night’s Watch for around a month and a half.

At what point had she changed?

When did she start becoming human again?

The door creaked open. Jon entered, followed by Grenn, Edd, Tormund and Karsi. The shock was most visible on Grenn and Edd’s faces; without any heavy clothing they saw a lean frame, slender collarbones, and the top of bindings that peaked through the V of her tunic.

“Little Crow,” Tormund chuckled, leaning against the wall. “A strong Little Crow.”

“Pyp was right this whole time,” Edd muttered, unable to take his eyes off Bramble. “You’re a bloody woman.”

“Like there’s something wrong with that?” Karsi asked, sauntering over to a chair and sitting in it. She had a scabbed-over cut on her forehead.

“This bloody woman threw me through the rampart wall at Castle Black,” Tormund said, almost as if he was proud. “And you dumb shits didn’t know she had a pussy the whole time!” He threw his head back and loudly laughed. “What, thought sitting was normal for taking a piss?”

“But—but she pissed standing up!” Grenn protested. “I mean—I never watched b-but we all saw’er stand and piss!”

“Yeah!” Edd agreed.

“She’s been pretending to be a man this whole time, and the first thing you bring up is how she’s pissed?” Karsi snorted. “Fucking idiots.”

Bramble was having a face journey listening to the conversation. She shook her head, left her spot near the porthole, and went to her cloak to dig around in a pocket. When she found what she was looking for, she pulled out a little wooden carving that had been pivotal in protecting her identity.

“What the fuck is that?” Edd questioned, squinting at the object.

“It helps me pee standing up,” Bramble replied. The sentence wasn’t the first one she’d hoped to say in front of all them—and really didn’t imagine that things would wind up on the topic so fast—but she might as well get it over with.

She placed the urination device between her legs to depict its use. “I pee into the cup, and it shoots out of the little spout. Since men don’t look at other men’s dicks when they piss, I could get away with it. Carved it up when I started pretending to be a man.”

The wildlings were having a grand ol’ time, poorly stifling their laughter while the Crows realized the grand deception Bramble had pulled over their eyes. She put the device away and fanned at her quickly heating face. “Now, that’s out of the way, let’s talk about more important things. Like how _I_ can talk.”

“Right,” Jon said. Bramble moved back to her place by the open porthole. “Now that we’re all here, explain how…” His hands made wide gestures. “Everything happened.”

Bramble crossed her arms and looked down at her bare feet. “I…where do I begin? I lost my voice three years ago.” She decided to leave out the small detail of coming from another world. “And I’ve had these, uh, abilities ever since. Strength beyond measures of a normal man, being able to see what a person is feeling and bits of their future with just one look, and, um…” She glanced at Jon, who gave a small nod encouraging her to continue. “I can see death.”

There was a silence.

“Death?” Karsi repeated.

“Yeah. I can see when someone is going to die. It appears at their feet and grows wider like shadows in a setting sun the closer they come to dying.” Bramble absently rubbed at her throat. It hadn’t gotten any sorer since she began speaking. “At Hardhome…at Hardhome there was so much of it that death appeared as one overwhelming, giant entity that spread across the entire settlement.” Her voice got quieter as the confessions poured out. “I saw it at Grenn’s feet during the battle for Castle Black. I saw it at Pyp’s feet. They were supposed to die that night. I stopped it, proving that in some ways I can divert death from its course.” She lifted her gaze to Karsi, whose face was washed of some color. “You were supposed to die at Hardhome. So were many others, who fortunately got on the boat before that blackness could swallow them whole. But I didn’t save you. Mag Mar did. And I saved him. He and Grenn were supposed to kill each other in the tunnel.” Bramble didn’t want to look at Grenn, for some reason.

“And the vision?” Jon asked. “You apparently showed Mag a vision of Hardhome. Why didn’t you say anything? Why only show it to him?”

“That vision…I don’t know how that happened. It’s been the only time. And I’m not sure I can do anything like it again. But I didn’t tell you because how could I? Without revealing myself? Without explaining all of this? The Night’s Watch would have me hanged. And even _if_ I told you, and _if_ you believed me and _if_ this and _if_ that, nearly the same amount of time would have elapsed, anyways. And who knows? The Night King is intelligent; he could have sensed the Night’s Watch coming to save the wildings no matter what time we went. So I went to Hardhome. And I did what I could.” Bramble turned her face to the open porthole and regarded the mist rolling in.

“And the explosion?” Surprisingly, it was Edd who spoke. “Bramb, you—you _exploded.”_

“Right.” Bramble rubbed at her chest where the fire sat. “That was a first, too. Sometimes I feel…flames inside. It’s sparked in the past, but only in me. The general did something to awaken it from the magic he was forcing on me. Guess it was his mistake to try.”

“Do you know what the Night King wanted with you?” Tormund was now serious and engaged.

Bramble shook her head once. “Not exactly. Maybe for my strength? Maybe to manipulate my abilities into something entirely new?” Something clicked in Bramble’s head. “Or…”

“Or to use your fire to burn the Wall down,” Jon finished darkly. A heaviness fell upon the room. Bramble couldn’t visibly see it, anymore, much to her annoyance.

“Yeah. Or that,” Bramble said. “But whatever he wanted was nothing good. And I don’t intend to be part of his plans.”

“Good,” said Karsi. “Because with what’s coming, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“That is if she’s allowed to live,” Tormund sighed. “What’re the rest of your brothers going to think, Lord Snow?” He gestured to me. “That’s a woman. As far as I know, women aren’t supposed to join the Night’s Watch.”

Jon frowned. “No. They’re not.” With a touch of exasperation, Jon asked Bramble, “Why did you pretend to be a man in the first place?’

She stared at him for a second before scoffing. “Have you _lived_ in this world, Snow? Women are beaten, raped, murdered, cast by the wayside in droves, and not one person gives a damn. I shouldn’t have had to pretend to be a man, but here we are. It’s safer that way.”

“And all those soldiers you murdered? Did you actually kill them?”

Bramble mirthlessly chuckled. “Of course I did,” she snapped. “I killed those fucking rapists like dogs. But I got away with it as a man because men just like you would never have questioned if a woman actually committed those murders. And as long as men stay ignorant, I can keep giving them what they deserve.”

The fire was hotter, now, becoming more than just a temperature. Bramble could feel it underneath her fingertips, licking against bones and burning bright inside her chest.

She inhaled and ran a hand over her head, leaning closer to the porthole to try and cool down. “Don’t get her too worked up, Snow,” Tormund suggested sagely. “Else she might burn this entire fucking ship down.”

“There’s something else,” Bramble said, feeling mist droplets catch on her face. “When the Night King raised the dead, he didn’t _use_ death. It was something else that possessed their bodies. It’s evil, and it’s alive in some way. Whether it be his own magic at work or something else entirely, it means that what we’re facing is…unbelievably powerful. More powerful than I could have imagined.”

Another span of silence, this one longer. Bramble broke it again to add more information. “I can’t see as much as I used to, anymore.” She swallowed the hard truth being faced. “My voice was returned, but at the expense of being able to see…auras. What people are feeling and the like. I don’t know if I’m still able to see death. Something was taken in the exchange. Not sure why.”

Tormund posed the important questions. “And your strength? Is it still with you?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“Well, how can you be sure?”

“Want me to toss you up in the air like a baby to test it out?” Bramble flatly proposed. Tormund gave a shit-eating grin. He’d probably enjoy that.

“So, Lord Snow? What will be done with her?” Karsi asked, leaning forward in her chair.

Jon regarded Bramble for several moments. She stared back, mouth forming into a hard line. He didn’t have many options to choose from, meaning that Bramble might find herself being attacked in the middle of the night by men who once considered her a brother.

Then again, things for Jon were about to drastically change as well.

“We’ll start with a trial,” he eventually said. “And you’ll be put in a cell when we reach Castle Black. But your safety will be ensured. No one will lay a finger on you.”

“You think I’m afraid of what the men might do to me?” Bramble lowly inquired. “I can easily rip their fingers off and more. Make sure they stay away from me so they’ll be safe.”

“Ya heard the lady, Snow,” Tormund said, standing upright. “Well. I think this brings an end to our current conversation.”

He and Karsi left, followed by Edd and Grenn. Grenn wouldn’t look at Bramble, either, keeping his head down and leaving without a word.

Jon was about to leave, too, when Bramble realized something very, very important.

“Hey, wait,” she quickly called to him. “Jon. Please.”

He stopped and half-turned to her. “What?” Jon sounded tired. Bramble couldn’t blame him. _She_ was tired, and she had done most of the talking. But she guessed Jon did a lot more deciding than she did.

Bramble stepped away from the porthole. “I…Jon, something bad is going to happen to Princess Shireen.”

His brows furrowed. “How do you know?”

“Before we left, I saw death at her feet. She’s in danger.”

“Wars are a nasty thing, Bramble. She may just get caught up in the thick of it all—”

“No.” Bramble clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling the fire rekindle. “I…” _Know._ “Believe the Red Woman intends to sacrifice her. She’s King’s blood, and they’re going to sacrifice her to help his army win the battle against the Boltons. I wanted to warn Ser Davos, but he left before I could give him the letter with my concerns.”

“And you didn’t see this in another vision of yours?” Jon asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

Bramble shook her head, prepared to lie through her teeth. “No. I just have a very bad feeling about it.”

“You honestly believe that Stannis will do that to his daughter?”

She groaned in frustration and rubbed at her chest to quell the flames. “Jon, you need to _listen to me._ Shireen is going to die, and I can save her if you allow me.”

“What if she’s already dead? What if there’s nothing you could have done, and I let you go on a fool’s errand, eh? And then what if you just run off so you don’t have to face a trial?” Jon spoke with outright anger. He pointed a finger at Bramble. “You are _not_ doing anything until I say so. Am I understood?’

Bramble tilted her chin at Jon in defiance. He wasn’t much taller than she was. “So you’re willing to let a little girl die?”

“Are you willing to lose your life for her?”

“I am,” Bramble spat. “I’ll die for Shireen without hesitation, and I’ll give you my word that I’ll return to Castle Black. It’s the only place she’d be safe. So please, Jon, let me save her!”

He suddenly pulled back into himself, turning the anger into icy resolve. “I’ll make my decision when we return. For now, you’re confined to these quarters until we dock tomorrow morning.”

Jon turned on his heels and slammed the door behind him. Bramble stood there for a few seconds. The fire grew fierce as it fed off her emotions.

She shouted and kicked the small table in the room. It crashed into the wall and shattered into unfixable pieces. Bramble then went back to the porthole, using her hands to brace herself against it. The wall where her hands were placed started smoking and cracking, so she hurriedly drew them back. Two blackened, smoldering handprints laid in their wake.

Bramble would save Shireen, whether Jon sanctioned it or not. There was still time.

There was still time.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon has had a rough day.
> 
> Oh, and if there's any random letters in this chapter or in chapters past (i.e., zzzzzzzzzzzzzz''''''',lllllllllllpppppppp) it's because I have a naughty kitten who thinks walking on keyboards is fun. She's unapologetic, but I'll still apologize on her behalf.


	17. Chapter 17

Wildings gathered to watch Bramble get off the ship. Her hands were bound in front of her with rope, even though they all knew she could break free if she wished.

Bramble spotted Karsi amongst the Free Folk. She had each of her little girls under each arm and nodded in acknowledgement. Bramble gave one back before being hauled up into a horse. Grenn and Edd flanked her on both sides. Neither spoke. Jon also hadn’t said another word to Bramble; he hadn’t even looked her way since they docked. Death followed behind him like a loyal hound.

Whatever was to happen next to Bramble didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Shireen mattered. That was all.

It should have been a cold journey back to Castle Black. Wind screamed across the frozen landscape as Jon led the Free Folk. Snow chipped away at any exposed skin, and Bramble wasn’t the only one who looked over her shoulder to make sure there weren’t any blue eyes staring back at them through the snowy haze.

But she didn’t feel the chill. Not as a normal human would. Bramble had foregone her heavy black cloak; she wasn’t sure if she was permitted to wear it, anyways. And yet to her, the temperature felt…neutral. The heat within made it as though it was early summer. Feeling like that and being in the depths of winter was unnatural.

Soon the Wall that greeted Bramble when she first arrived at Castle Black stood there with its impossible height to welcome her again. The presence of its magic made her teeth initially buzz, as usual. Bramble didn’t have to see any tension to feel it ripple across the masses.

“Thorne’s gonna let us in, innit he?” Grenn asked quietly. “He has to. Jon gave him the order.”

“He will,” Bramble whispered before she could stop herself. If Grenn or Edd heard, neither of them said anything in reply.

Tiny black dots stood on top of the Wall. Bramble was sure one of them was Thorne himself. The world itself seemed to wait with the rest of them to see if the tunnel gate would lift. What if it didn’t? What if Bramble…changed something? Started a chain reaction that led to everything being messed up?

Before she could freak herself out too much, the gate cracked open and permitted entry. Bramble kicked her horse forward with the rest, dreading the events that were bound to happen behind the Wall.

Crows stared at the mass of enemies crossing through their courtyard. Bramble reckoned they didn’t care to notice that many held children in their arms or were too old to swing an axe. All they saw were dirty wildlings ready to attack them.

And the brothers stared at Bramble, whose disguise finally failed.

Bramble was ushered to the stables. Pyp waited for them there. The baffled expression on his face said it all.

She slid off the mount, soon feeling Grenn and Edd put their hands under her arms to take her to the cells. “Wh—what’s going on?” Pyp eventually stuttered when he found his words.

“I’m a girl,” Bramble replied. If anyone was going to explain, it’d be the one who formerly didn’t have a voice to explain in the first place. She held up her bound wrists. “Congratulations, Pyp. You weren’t insane.”

Pyp didn’t look satisfied. He didn’t even celebrate. He just looked shocked and sad and emptied.

“Come on, Bramb,” Edd muttered, lightly tugging Bramble’s arm. She gave Pyp one final glance before turning away.

They headed towards cells. Bramble finally caught a glimpse of Olly standing on the castle’s upper walkway. For a moment that unquenchable anger towards Jon had left, and seeing Bramble for who she really was created a demeanor of utter helplessness in him. She wanted to tell him that it’d be okay, that this was the right thing, that he needed to trust Jon.

But honestly, Bramble might never get to talk to Olly again.

“You’re not cold?” Edd asked as they delivered Bramble to the same cell Tormund had been held in. Ironic.

“I feel like I’m sunburned from the inside out,” Bramble said curtly. She sounded so curt all the time; was that how she normally talked? “So no. I haven’t felt the cold since I detonated.”

“Oh.” An awkward silence. Both Crows acted like they wanted to say something but couldn’t spit it out. Bramble lightly punched Edd on the shoulder and tried smiling.

“Hey. Don’t worry ‘bout me. You’ve got bigger things to be concerned with.”

“Like what?” Edd questioned. “What could possibly be worse than what’s happenin’ right now?”

Bramble gave him a look. Years of being a mute perfected the expression. “You’d be surprised,” she said flatly. “Now get going. Jon will need assistance handling the shitstorm I’ve caused.”

Edd pursed his lips and nodded. “Come on, Grenn.”

Grenn opened his mouth to speak, made a choked noise, and then closed it. For some reason that hurt. Bramble wanted him to just say _something._ She’d answer all his funny questions, thank him for keeping her secret…

But all Bramble did was watch them leave and lock the cell door.

And then it was just her and the silence.

 _No time to pout._ Bramble pinched her lower lip in thought as she paced, thinking of all the ways she could get to Shireen in time. The storm was worsening outside, and soon it’d be too severe to see through in daylight, let alone the consuming night.

Davos would be on his way here. Bramble didn’t see him in the courtyard, which was a good sign. If she was quick enough, she might be able to catch him. Explain things, team up—

But how could Bramble get out of Castle Black without a horse to ride on for the journey? Escaping was one thing; escaping with a mount would be impossible.

_Go without one._

The thought made Bramble’s brows furrow in derision. She couldn’t _possibly_ run through a blizzard and four feet of snow in the dark and expect to make it.

Could she?

The fire said yes. Bramble said no.

But what other option was there?

Bramble sat down on a crate and ran fingers through her hair. When she brought them back down, she traced over the deep scar running up half the side of her face. It’d never seal. Maybe lessen in its depth, but the skin wouldn’t ever stich itself back together again.

She’d overestimated her abilities once. Bramble thought she could fend off those soldiers, but they’d cut her face in half before she could raise her fists. Then she was left out there to bleed into the dirt and watch Lannister steel cut through Hammon, the husband and father who’d let Bramble into their lives.

Jysel was run through trying to protect Reesa and Jak before she could get raped. Jak’s screams were cut off from a blade sliding across his throat.

And Reesa…oh, Reesa.

Everything happened so quickly. By the time Bramble got on her feet, it was all over. And she was left with nothing but death and a burning farm. One cut to her face had left her incapacitated. What would a northern snowstorm do?

Except that was then. This was now.

Bramble was beginning to admit to herself the crazy thing she had to do when a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She stood, listening to locks click before the door creaked open. When Bramble saw Sam’s face peek through, she couldn’t help but smile.

“Hello.” He spoke in just above a whisper. There were bruises and healing wounds on his face, and a flare of anger ignited within Bramble. Who hurt him? Who did this? “I—I know this is a bad time, and I shouldn’t even be here, but Maester Aemon wants to see you.”

Maester Aemon? Bramble thought he would have died by now, while they were away. The blackness was upon him, vast and ready.

But the old man shuffled through, blind eyes wandering the room and shoulders hunched. Death was still ever-present, but even its clutches couldn’t drag down the old Targaryen just yet. “The tales I’ve been hearing, young Bramble, are most disturbing. I’m afraid not even I can keep up with the information I’ve been told.”

How long had it been since Bramble was thrown in the cell? She glanced out the window and, to her horror, saw that barely any light trickled through. It got dark so fast out here that daylight was a short-lived idea.

Bramble bowed her head. “I…I’m sorry, Maester Aemon. I’ve been lying to everyone this whole time.” For some reason, standing in front of the old blind man made her feel lower and barer than ever.

He showed the faintest of smiles. “So what they say is true. I’m afraid I won’t be present to see what becomes of you, Bramble. Young Samwell and I are traveling to the Citadel in continuation of his apprenticeship.”

She looked at Sam to confirm. His gaze flickered away from her before nodding. “Are Gilly and little Sam going with you?” Bramble asked as she processed what she was hearing.

“They are, yes,” Sam replied. “Gilly…Gilly wanted me to tell you that she and the baby will miss you dearly. You’ve been kind to them in such a cruel place.”

It was Bramble’s turn to faintly smile. “Women have to stick together.”

Aemon laughed at that. “Yes, they do, don’t they?”

“When are you leaving?”

“Er, tomorrow morning. I—I told Jon that he should give you the benefit of the doubt but—”

Bramble held up a hand to stop Sam from stumbling over worried promises and foundered assurances. “It’s alright. Whatever comes, comes.”

“And you intend to sit quietly, waiting for men to decide your fate?” Aemon inquired. An odd question.

She wouldn’t lie to him, though. “No. No, I do not.”

He grinned, this time, which deepened his wrinkles and brightened the light against the darkness of death. “Good,” Aemon whispered.

“We’d, er, best get going, Maester Aemon,” Sam said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If we…if we don’t see you again, Bramble, I, erm…”

“We will, Sam,” Bramble said with a strange resolve. Aemon’s simple words strengthened her, gave her focus. “If I live through these next few nights, we will.”

He smiled and began leading Aemon away. She wanted to pull the old maester aside and share with him that Jon was a Targaryen, that he and Daenerys would rise and fight, that the Targaryens were no longer alone in this world.

It didn’t happen. She stayed silent like she lost her voice again, watching as the two left the confines of the cell. Aemon wouldn’t make it to the Citadel. But maybe he’d get a taste of warm river winds and feel the unobstructed sun on his skin before death made its move. Maybe that’s why it waited. To respect a descendant born of fire and blood.

When it sounded like there was nobody in the hall outside, Bramble broke into the crates sharing the cell and began rummaging through its contents. Most of it were things like empty glass bottles, extra blankets and saddle polish, but she managed to scrounge up some black fabric to wrap around her head and face to blend in better with the surrounding darkness. Bramble couldn’t find any weapons (because why would there be weapons in a prisoner’s cell) and she wasn’t sure if she should risk sneaking to the blacksmith’s and taking a sword.

Guess all she’d get to arm herself with were unclipped fingernails and a strong punch. If Bramble could produce a controlled fire around her bare hands, that’d be neat too. But she wouldn’t get her hopes up.

It had been dark for hours when Bramble mustered up the courage to act. There was no time left for hesitation. She covered her face with the fabric, took what may be her last calm breaths, and broke the door’s locks as quietly as she could. It worked better than she thought. Nobody was posted outside the cell, either, giving Bramble the chance to escape without close-quarter fighting.

Bramble stuck close to the wall, ready to duck into a corridor or a room the second she heard anything. At one point there were a pair of voices lowly talking to one another, but they quickly faded away and left Bramble breathing heavily and clenching sweaty palms.

She rapidly realized that she was not cut out for the stealth shit. One second she thought she was Jason Bourne, and now she was back to the awkward twenty-year-old trying not to get killed.

The frigid air made for great relief when Bramble stepped foot outside. She had never… _snuck_ before, so she found herself crouching against the landing’s railing, probably looking like a crab. There didn’t seem to be anybody in the courtyard, but with the moon hidden and a storm violently tossing snow around there might be a chance Bramble was blinded.

But fuck it.

Bramble propelled herself upward and over the railing. A snow drift muffled her fall, but she was left wading through four feet of snow. Nobody shouted or told her to stop, which was good, right?

Ducking low, Bramble ran across the courtyard to the closed gate. She might have to bust through that, too. Could she afford to stop and lift the lever? Or would she go all out and act like a battery ram?

While Bramble was deep in thought, a pair of hands emerged from the darkness to grab her shoulders and attempt to drag her back. She cried out in surprise and threw the attacker off into the ankle-deep snow.

“Hey! Hey!” Grenn shouted, rolling upright and scrambling backwards. “It’s me! It’s me.”

“Grenn? What the _fuck?”_ Bramble shouted through the biting snowfall.

He pointed an angry finger at her. “I leave your post for one minute to take a shit, and when I come back you’re gone!”

“You were guarding my cell? And you didn’t say anything? You fuck!” Bramble shoved him, but not hard enough to do any damage. Enough to let the pain inside trickle out. “You haven’t said _anything_ to me this entire time!”

“Well how could I?” Grenn shot back. “You—you lied to everyone! To me!”

“Oh, so you would have kept that secret too? You wouldn’t have told anyone that I was a girl?”

“I—I woulda—that’s not—”

Bramble brought down her cowl and wiped the snow colleting on her eyelashes. “It doesn’t matter now, Grenn, does it? I can talk, the truth is out, and I saw death waiting for Shireen before she left. She’s going to _die_ out there if I don’t save her!”

The wheels were slow to spin in Grenn’s mind, but once they did his eyes lit up and he hastily sprung toward Bramble. “You can’t! Bramb, Jon set up your trial in three days’ time! If you leave, they—they’ll think you run off! And Jon—”

“I’m coming back!” Bramble snapped, cutting Grenn off. “I’m coming back with Shireen.”

“But…but what if she’s already dead?” he weakly asked. The wind spurred again, catching Grenn’s black cloak. Bramble would never wear one of the same like again.

“She’s not,” Bramble said, feeling snow turn to liquid before it even reached her skin. “I just…I know she’s not.”

“And what if you die trying to get her?”

A silence. “Then find my body when the snow melts,” she growled.

Grenn looked just…lost. He gestured to the gate. “Then go,” he spoke. “There’s no way in Seven Hells I’ll be able to stop you.”

Unable to come up with the right words, Bramble began to backtrack to the exit. Grenn watched her raise the cowl, watched her lift the wooden beam barricading the door and disappear into the darkness of the blizzard.

Bramble didn’t see it, but Grenn’s face turned from despondent to anxious and then to concerned. He then tiredly walked to Jon’s study to inform the Lord Commander that Bramble was gone.

And she might never return.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Aemon dies at Castle Black in the show, but I honestly forgot that he died before Hardhome so I thought I'd send him off like in the books (under less perilous circumstances, of course).


	18. Chapter 18

Bramble ran.

The surrounding storm brought a pitch black that no normal person should have been able to tread through without getting lost. And the cold…the cold would freeze a man in a few hours out in the open.

But they weren’t Bramble. They didn’t sense the death like she did. Though solely pinpointing Shireen wasn’t possible, the entire Baratheon army and their approaching demise made for a mighty target.

At one point, Bramble saw faint fires built by the wildlings. She wondered what was going to happen to them, seeing as Bramble’s intended appointment to finding them a suitable place to live was probably out the window.

She continued her pace. There were no hints that she was tiring, straining herself too much. The fire’s unending fuel gave Bramble what she needed to keep going.

Despite the drive, she couldn’t help but imagine what might happen should she arrive at the encampment and find that Shireen was already gone. What would she do? Where would she go?

It was dangerous to invest this much love in a single person destined for death. Bramble set herself up for the chance of grief and loss and pain. Not just for Shireen, either; for Olly and for Jon, Sam, Edd, Pyp, Grenn and even Gilly and the baby. She told herself that it wasn’t by choice, but what else could it have been? These emotions weren’t forced upon her. They came as naturally as human nature.

She hated it here. She hated the winter and the magic and the clothes and _everything._ Bramble didn’t know starvation until she came to Westeros. She didn’t know what it was like walking through feces in the streets or selling her body for money before she came to Westeros.

And she had never known crushing, incapacitating loneliness until Westeros brought itself upon her. That, and death. So much death.

Through the hate, the anger, the bitterness, somehow the desire to protect and love crept through like weeds in sidewalk cracks. Bramble picked and plucked at them, and still they returned and regrew.

She didn’t used to be like this. She used to allow love in, quietly and consistently. She was given love, too, by her parents and friends. Even a couple of boyfriends thought they gave her their idea of love. Bramble used to be _happy._ She used to live for the day and live for the future. Now she was hardly living at all.

Nobody loved Bramble here. Cared, maybe, but not loved. Bramble could disappear and be forgotten within weeks. So why did she let herself care in return?

The questions ran as fast as she was through the blizzard.

This was so messed up. Everything was so _messed up._ Bramble should have been asleep in her bed at home with a late-night comedy show blaring from downstairs. She should have been going to school and preparing for uni and dressing nice and being happy and just…just…

Bramble slowed to a stop and screamed. It was full of rage and sadness and more _rage._

The storm consumed it all.

_Dad drove and Mom sat in the passenger’s seat, holding hands and talking about the speakers at the parade. Bramble stretched out in the back, the pink-and-blue-and-white paint on her face dried out and flaking on her skin. She gazed out the window, watching as houses and trees and signs blurred together. A smile trailed on her lips as dark green eyes grew heavy with fatigue._

_It was her birthday tomorrow. She’d be twelve. But right now was happiness. The kind that comes from falling asleep in the back seat of a Nissan Rogue as Nandito Ako played for the millionth time and the loving eyes of parents flitted back to Bramble through the rearview mirror._

When there wasn’t any air left in her lungs, she bent over and buried her face in her hands. This wasn’t the time for a meltdown. The meltdown could wait when Bramble faced the consequences when she and Shireen returned to Castle Black. Together.

After taking a few breaths that seemed louder than the howling wind, Bramble stood upright and confessed to the darkness, “I’m not cut out for this.”

Its response was to calm the storm thriving in it for a brief second. With the blizzard stilled and the wind tamed, Bramble saw something she hadn’t noticed before in the distance, flickering and glowing.

A fire.

She squinted, trying to determine if it was real or not. The campfire—or hopefully it was—lay several feet off the path Bramble assumed she was following. But who was it? Who was out alone in the middle of a northern blizzard?

Bramble straightened as realization dawned on her. Hadn’t Stannis sent Davos away when…?

Maybe it wasn’t…

But _maybe…_

Then she was running again, trying to keep her eyes trained on the fire before it disappeared again. A large drift of snow threatened to slow Bramble down, but she plowed through it like…like a snow plow? Now wasn’t the best time for analogies.

Shaking white powder out of her hair, Bramble slowed to a jog and high-stepped through more snow towards the fire. It was little more than embers, now, suffocated by the storm. If Bramble hadn’t seen it when she did, the chances of spotting it in the blizzard were slim to none.

The campsite wasn’t much of a campsite. A small tent had been pitched and stood meekly before the howling wind. There was a soft glow emanating from within, meaning that whoever was inside was probably awake. Next to the tent was a horse tethered to the trunk of a slim pine tree, its head from the cold, a layer of white covering its fur.

_Poor thing._ Bramble crossed over to the horse while keeping an eye on the tent. She pressed warm hands on its neck to give it some desperately needed heat. The steed perked its head up, lowly whinnying and leaning into Bramble’s touch. She moved a hand up to its nuzzle, letting it sniff before she placed it there. The horse didn’t protest.

Bramble’s hands were heat packs. All of her was, really. She still wasn’t cold or tired, even after running for hours in a fucking snowstorm.

It took a little longer than Bramble would have liked to leave the steed and approach the tent. What if it wasn’t Davos? What if she just wasted time? Or what if it _was_ Davos and he tried killing her because, after all, a rando just poked their head into his tent after cuddling with his horse?

_Are you seriously getting anxiety right now? **Really?**_

Chewing on her bottom lip, Bramble firmly reminded herself that this was about Shireen. This was about saving a girl who deserved to be saved, who _needed_ to be saved. The sun would be up in a few hours, and the Baratheon army was still a long way away.

She then strode up to the tent and awkwardly patted the flap. The sound was exactly like the wind hitting it, unfortunately, meaning that there was no polite or gentle way to make Bramble’s presence known.

So.

It was probably best Davos see her face, right? She tugged the cowl down and let it drop. Then, taking the edges of the tied-together flaps, Bramble ripped the ties apart enough to push her head in.

_This is a bad idea._

_But aren’t all of your ideas bad?_

The reflective question turned out to be true. The second Bramble got her head through, she was met with the blade of a steel sword pressing against her neck.

Davos towered above her, eyes fierce and unrepentant. He’d kill her without remorse, if he had to.

“State your business, Crow,” he growled. The blade dug deeper.

Well. At least Davos recognized Bramble.

The imperative information she had for Seaworth didn’t exactly mix well with the current position she was in, with her head poking into his tent like an absolute idiot. “Shireen is in danger,” Bramble replied, trying her best to look as truthful and serious as possible. “The Red Woman plans to burn her at the stake.”

It was apparent that was the last thing Davos expected to hear. The sword dropped from Bramble’s neck and he took a step back. “What?”

Bramble snuck a hand through and untied the nearest knot so she had more room to step into the tent. Davos didn’t protest her entry, so she went ahead and stumbled into it. The candle dimly illuminating the inside threatened to die out from the sudden wind entering.

“Shireen. She’s going to die. I—”

“I thought you were a mute?” Davos bluntly interrupted. “Meaning no offense—I think—but weren’t you also a boy?”

“Yes and, uh, yes,” Bramble said. They were standing too close in the small tent. She hadn’t really thought this through had she? “It’s a long story. One that I’ll explain when we have the time. But I _know_ Shireen is going to die. This storm, it’s too strong for the army to move on. They’re going to starve if it doesn’t let up and don’t have enough food to return to Castle Black. So Melisandre will convince Stannis to sacrifice Shireen to stop the storm.”

Davos shook his head, but his eyes were dark with growing dread. He knew it wasn’t beyond Stannis, anymore. “No. The princess is the heir. Her father wouldn’t accept it.”

“Why do you think Shireen was taken with them? She’s the fallback plan! And with Melisandre whispering in his ear, he’ll do anything to achieve his goals because they think he’s the Prince Who Was Promised or whatever the fuck you call it.”

Davos gave her a suspicious look. “How do you know all of this?”

“I…am different.” The words sounded lame coming out of Bramble’s mouth. Davos almost smiled at the explanation.

“Well,” he huffed, sheathing his sword and grabbing the cloak he was using as a blanket. “Now that I know you’re a girl, I s’pose you might actually have wholesome care for Shireen.”

Bramble’s brows drew together. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I don’t trust men of the Night’s Watch around little girls,” Davos said as he tied his cloak around his shoulders.

She stared at him as her brain tried to speed through every fucking thing that was wrong with Westeros before muttering, “I hate this place.”

Davos, who thought she meant the North and being in the Night’s Watch instead of this world, snorted and hefted the saddle pack underneath an arm. He extinguished the candle between two gloved fingers, plunging them into darkness. “I imagine so, my lady.”

They abandoned the tent and went back out into the frigid night. The clouds had relinquished their oppression of the moon and let her faint, pale light shine down upon them. Combined with the vast amount of snow, it created enough visibility for Davos to saddle the horse.

“You’re going to follow me,” Bramble explained over the wind. “I know the way.”

“How? When the moon disappears again it’ll be pitch black.” Davos stopped, then started again. “And did you say _follow?_ Where’s your horse?”

“I ran,” she tried to say as casually as possible.

“You ran.”

“Yes.”

“When did you start?”

“A few hours ago.”

Davos paused to consider if he was going to ask more questions about the already strange conversation. Bramble stood there hoping he wouldn’t. With the shake of his head, Davos cinched the saddle and grumbled, “Let me guess: you’ll explain later?”

“Hopefully,” Bramble said, watching him mount. She grabbed the reins near the horse’s bit and started guiding it back to some semblance of the path. The sense of thousands awaiting death was easy to lock onto again. Somewhere within the void was Shireen.

When Davos warmed up the steed, he started into a slow lope. Bramble kept up, and he shouted something that was lost on the wind. It was probably a question wondering if she was alright. And, surprisingly, she was.

Huh.

They needed to pick up the pace, though. Bramble pushed further ahead, the momentum only fueling the fire’s power. Had she been running this fast in the first place? Davos’ horse was now at a full gallop, and still she remained ahead.

Freaky.

Bramble wondered if she could fly as well. Might want to test that by jumping off the Wall. Use the fire like Johnny Storm or something. That was the guy’s name, right?

If only she had been drop-kicked into another dimension instead of this shitty one, where the dead walked and seasons lasted for years on end. Why couldn’t it have been, like, anything else?

At least there were dragons here, though.

But there were dragons in a lot of other places, too. And _more_ of them.

_Why are you thinking of this now?_

Because there was little else to think about when one was running as fast as a horse through a snow storm on their way to save a princess.

-

They traveled through the rest of the night and through the morning. The poor horse was exhausted, with frozen sweat on its fur and death trickling down its legs and into the broken snow. Bramble had Davos stop and let it rest—and to let Davos himself rest.

The older man got off and stretched, but he didn’t look at all relieved. “We still have at least twenty more miles to go,” he said. “We’re not going to make it in time. Not at this rate.”

Bramble’s heart tightened from hearing the truth. “I can keep running,” she said. “I’m not worn out yet.”

“Begging your pardon, but have you ever _done_ this before?” Davos put in abruptly. “Or have you just run for, oh, I don’t know, days on end just for fun?”

“No. I haven’t done this before. I haven’t ever done _most_ of the things I did in the past few days. So we’re on a learning scale here.”

“Lovely,” Davos grunted. “And what if you do start getting exhausted? What then? Without a horse to put Shireen on? And let’s say that if you do make it there still feeling as fresh as a spring daisy, how’re you going to sneak in? There are guards and soldiers and Stannis himself! What if Shireen won’t go? She’s stubborn. _Very_ stubborn.”

“I don’t know, alright!” Bramble said exasperatedly. “Melisandre and I don’t exactly have the best, uh, relationship either. She might sense my presence. But you can’t go in either. Didn’t Stannis order you to leave?”

“Yes—how did you know that?”

“I just _do._ He did it because he knew you wouldn’t let him go through with sacrificing Shireen if worst came to worst.”

“And right now is the worst,” Davos grimly said. He tilted his head up at the heavy flakes of snow drifting to the ground. “The soldiers are starving and the storm isn’t letting up.” He looked back to Bramble. “Are you certain about all this?”

“Yes. And if…if I’m wrong, then at least Shireen will still be safe from the Boltons when they go to war.”

Bramble cupped some snow in her hands and let it melt into a puddle of warm water. She lifted it up to the horse and let it take some much-needed drinks. Davos watched with an appropriately stunned expression. Bramble didn’t know she could do that, either.

“So what do we do?” he eventually questioned. Bramble repeated the snow melting and shrugged.

_Don’t ask me,_ she wanted to say. _I’m just a kid._

But she wasn’t, was she? Bramble hadn’t been that for a while, now.

“I think I can get Shireen. If you go anywhere near the camp they might recognize you.”

“And you? You’re a girl—a lady, I mean.”

Davos’ sarcastic yet sincere correction made Bramble almost smile again. “I know how to pretend to be a boy. Don’t you remember?”

“Point taken. Your best bet at getting into the camp is where the mercenaries are set up. They’re at the southern end of camp, luckily. Your problem will be getting to Shireen’s tent. It’s in the center of the camp, and she may not be alone when you do find her. I’ll follow behind when my horse catches its breath.”

Bramble raised the cowl. She didn’t need it at this point, necessarily, but it felt cool to put on. “Understood.” She turned to start running, again, but Davos hurriedly grabbed her arm before she left.

“Save Shireen,” he said—no, commanded. Such an intense look made Bramble see Davos in another light. The light of a fatherly love. “Save her at any cost.”

She nodded and resumed running, trying to get the expression on Davos’ face out of her head. It only reminded Bramble of the deceased.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has got me all out of sorts, guys. You understand.


	19. Chapter 19

The Baratheon camp looked similar to Hardhome, in the sense that death was so present there seemed to be a void amongst the white snow. The blizzard continued to rage on, and even Bramble could tell the temperature had dropped more.

She ducked behind a cropping of rocks upon nearing the encampment. There didn’t seem to be any guards posted, but Bramble couldn’t be positive. Mercenaries and soldiers hunched over as meek fires flickered against the unforgiving wind. They were too busy starving and freezing to notice if Bramble walked right on in. Death had broken apart into individual pockets, at this point. She could differentiate between the mercenaries and the soldiers because of the darkness they lacked under their feet. Not all of them wore Baratheon armor, either, which was good for Bramble’s terrible disguise.

Bramble stood and pretended to pull up her trousers, acting as if she had just taken a dump. A few eyes flitted her way, but as soon as she folded her arms and stooped down to imitate being cold, gazes turned away.

Nobody wore cowls, though, so Bramble tugged hers down. Her head was bent so close to her chest that it was hard to see any feminine qualities through the snowstorm.

Walking through Hardhome surrounded by death was tense and disturbing. Walking through the Baratheon camp, however, was like walking through a graveyard. Everybody knew they were already dead. Nobody talked, nobody moved if they didn’t have to. Bramble should have been drawing eyes because she lacked any sort of cloak or armor, but thinking required work, and work meant straying from the fire.

An unused sword sat atop a snow-covered crate. Bramble saw it as she passed and snatched it up to use. It was one thing walking through a camp to steal a princess; to not have any sort of practical weapon while doing so was stupid. Bramble didn’t have to be a genius to get that.

With the sword belted around her waist, the search for Shireen’s tent continued. Bramble kept a sharp eye out for Stannis or Melisandre. She didn’t see either—which only made things worse. They could pop out at any moment and she’d be screwed. Bramble hoped that maybe somehow she’d sense Melisandre with the plethora of freaky powers she possessed. It soon proved impossible, however, leaving Bramble to wander towards the center of the camp and hope she’d find Shireen before everything went to crap.

After avoiding a sudden patrol that headed in the opposite direction of Bramble, she decided to go where they came from and slunk through rows of tents. There was a stillness in these parts. Since there were no soldiers, the weight of death temporarily lifted and left an absence.

And in the absence there was a girl singing.

Bramble stopped, listening to where it was originating from. Her heart quickened its pace. _Shireen. It’s Shireen._

She turned westward, trying to keep from drawing unwanted attention by walking at a normal speed. Shireen’s tent was four more rows down and was in the center of camp like Davos promised. However, two soldiers guarded the entrance of her tent. Even though they looked cold and miserable, Bramble still couldn’t take them down without being seen.

As Bramble circled back around to find another way in, she saw soldiers piling wood onto a pyre not three hundred feet away. Her stomach immediately soured. Things were going to become _very_ bad _very_ fast.

A poorly thought-out idea formed, much like all of Bramble’s other ideas. She went to the back of Shireen’s tent, unsheathed the sword, made sure nobody was around, and promptly slashed through the canvas.

The singing abruptly stopped. Shireen audibly gasped, but whatever scream brewing was cut off when Bramble stepped through. Her entrance was much better than it had been with Davos.

Frightfully clutching her cloak, Shireen sputtered, “B-Bramble?”

Despite all the chaos, all the evil and terror, Bramble couldn’t help but smile a little when she saw the alive and well face of Princess Shireen.

And Shireen smiled back.

She sheathed her sword and rushed forward to kneel down and grip Shireen by her shoulders. Death amassed at her feet. Bramble could almost feel it seeping through her trousers, sucking away heat when nothing else could. “What are you doing here?” Shireen asked. “And _why_ did you stab a hole through my tent? What’s going—”

Bramble hastily covered Shireen’s mouth with her hand. Though wide-eyed, the princess didn’t push it away. “I can talk, and I’m a girl,” Bramble simply put. Those dark brown eyes grew even wider, and Shireen spouted something inaudible. The hand continued to stay put. “Something very, very bad is going to happen to you, princess. Your father…” She trailed off for a moment, unsure if she should tell Shireen that her father intended to sacrifice her for the sake of his army. “It’s not important. What’s important is that I get you out of here. We need to move quietly, and we need to move quickly. Davos is waiting for us a few miles north of here.”

Lowering her hand gave Shireen the opportunity to talk in a soft voice. “But what about Father? Why do you have to sneak me out? Does he know about all this?”

Bramble screwed her eyes shut and sighed. She hadn’t exactly figured out how to break the news to Shireen about everything. Honestly, she hoped she never had to. “He…look, Shireen, things are very complicated right now and—”

“What is he going to do.”

Bramble opened her eyes and looked back up at Shireen. The princess stood solemnly before her, strong and graceful enough to handle whatever news about to be dealt. “Tell me,” Shireen said. The girl appeared years beyond her age.

With a dry and aching throat, she said, “The Baratheon army is on the brink of death in this snowstorm. Melisandre has…convinced your father that sacrificing someone with king’s blood will bring an end to the storm and allow them to advance to Winterfell.”

Shireen stared at Bramble as she gave her weak explanation, still and reactionless. Waiting for a response seemed like an eternity. All Bramble could do was pray to whatever cruel god that watched over this world that the little princess saw reason and trusted her.

“He won’t win, will he?” she eventually asked just above a whisper. The howling wind outside almost drowned it out. “No matter what. We’re not going to take Winterfell.”

Bramble didn’t hide the truth. She gave her head the smallest of shakes, but enough that Shireen could see it. The princess briefly closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. But she remained unwavering and noble, giving a glimpse of just how strong she was. “Take me away from here, Bramble.”

After breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Bramble stood and scanned the tent. “Do you have a pack of clothes?”

“I—no, only a chest—” Shireen hastily grabbed a small satchel and stuffed it with the stack of books on one of her end tables. Despite the anxiety clawing at Bramble’s senses, she couldn’t help but smile at what the Baratheon princess considered a necessity.

After adding hairpins and a comb, she tied the bulky satchel shut. Shireen slung it over the shoulder and nodded as a sign that she was ready to go. Bramble ushered her out of the tent and resisted the temptation to grab her hand. The gesture would only raise alarms.

Snow softly crunched under their feet as they tried to maintain a normal pace. Shireen drew her hood up, but that would do little to keep attention away from them. As soon as they walked out into the open space, eyes from freezing and starving soldiers immediately drew their way. Did they already know who the pyre was being built for?

“Bramb,” Shireen whispered fearfully. They barely made it past the central part of camp. “We’re not going to make it out.”

“We will,” Bramble replied, barely moving her mouth so nobody would see she was talking to the princess.

They had to.

The southernmost end of camp was a welcome sight. Each step with Shireen felt like another death sentence stacked on top of the other. Soldiers, though their gazes lingered, stayed where they were and kept their mouths shut. No alarms had been raised.  Surely it couldn’t have been easy, could it?

The moment Bramble thought that she knew something bad was going to happen.

“Hey! You there!” a voice shouted. Bramble made the mistake of glancing in the direction of the yell. When she did, she let out a silent curse.

The soldier. The one who told Bramble where Davos went before the Baratheon army left Castle Black. He easily recognized her. And of course he had to be right at the very edge of camp, unknowingly stopping everything from going smoothly.

“Bramble,” Shireen whispered again. “What’re we going to do?”

She didn’t reply.

“Stop! What’re you doing with the princess?” the captain demanded to know. He started to walk up to them, ready to cut off their path.

They were _so close._

Behind them, back at the center of the camp, a horn blew on the icy wind. “The princess has been kidnapped!” somebody in the distance yelled. “The princess has been kidnapped!”

The captain’s eyes widened. He broke into a run, drawing his sword to fight and be a hero. But they didn’t have time to fight! They needed to run.

Bramble took Shireen’s hand and nearly pulled the princess off her feet. She ran—no, sprinted—the rest of the way to the very edge of camp. The captain, who was ready to lay down his life in the Baratheon name, staggered to a stop when Shireen thrust out a hand and harshly exclaimed, “No! Leave me!”

He was going to die anyway. Every soldier and some of the mercenaries who started to chase them were.

The camp fell behind them, but nothing was over. Shireen, weighed down by layers of clothes, had an even harder time keeping up with Bramble. The only thing keeping the two together were their tightly interlocked fingers.

Bramble let Shireen go once before. She wasn’t going to let her go again.

“The soldiers!” Shireen gasped. “We can’t lose the soldiers!”

Glancing over her shoulder, Bramble saw what she already expected. More than twenty soldiers hotly pursued. The chance to save a princess and be rewarded by their king renewed their strength and stamina. Soon the rest of the army would follow. A large bulk were already twenty paces away—and closing fast.

Bramble caught the terror in Shireen’s eyes. Death still clung to her cloak like molasses that couldn’t be shaken. Some of its essence was left in the snow with each fleeing footstep. It still wasn’t going to be enough.

_Use it,_ the voice beckoned. _Use it._

She couldn’t—

It might not work—

_Use it!_

As the fear ebbed away, fire took its place.

Shireen was swung around in front of Bramble. She stumbled into the snow, crying out at the sudden change. Bramble spun to face the army and the trail of death they spread.

Snow melted beneath her feet. She could feel the flames licking and snapping under her skin, warning Bramble that whether she used the fire or not, it _would_ get out.

_One breath, two breaths._ Steam billowed from her mouth like smoke from a dragon’s maw.

_“Brace for impact!” the pilot’s broken voice blared over the radio. “Brace for impact!”_

_“Nay!” Bramble shrieked like a helpless little girl. The word was captured by the oxygen mask over her mouth. Pressure from the fall made it hard to even move._

_Outside the window, the entire world was blue. Light, dark, split by nothing and everything. Ready to embrace. Ready to punish._

_The flight hit the ocean water._

Bramble slashed a violent hand in front of her, slicing through memories and the frigid air. Fire roared to life on the ground where she traced it into existence. It rolled viciously through the snow and climbed high into the gray sky. Its red-and-orange tendrils seemed to burn existence itself.

It didn’t want to stop. It wanted to rage onward, cutting a swath through the soldiers it now barricaded Bramble and Shireen from. The urge to let the fire’s will spiral into chaos was more than strong. She knew its ways now, though, its resistance to control. That was the nature of fire. Humans knew it as sure as they knew that cold could kill and death was inescapable.

Bramble knew it.

She refused to relinquish the rein and stopped the fire from continuing on its wild, destructive path. Through its heat, Bramble saw soldiers standing helplessly on the other side of the curtain, stunned by the terrible creation before them. The fire reached fifteen meters across. It’d give Bramble and Shireen a little time to distance themselves before anyone realized that they could walk around the living wall.

On the other side of the burning veil stood Melisandre. Whether the flames distorted her smile or it was just her wicked expression, Bramble couldn’t tell. She stared back for another moment before spinning back around and sweeping an aghast Shireen up into her arms.

She broke into a run, the fire reignited in her chest. Shireen didn’t speak, didn’t move as they fled.

The blizzard picked up again. It graciously hid the two in its white embrace.

Left behind in the chaos of it all was Shireen’s death.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly it's the change we all wanted.


	20. Chapter 20

Bramble let go of Shireen once they were miles outside of camp. By then the princess had gained some composure and only staggered a little bit when she was set down. Bramble knew they were going the right direction from her own faint footprints nearly covered by snow. The further they’d traveled, though, the more she feared that they would eventually become lost.

Shireen took a few steadying breaths and tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears. Bramble hadn’t planned on showing her that she could _control fire._ Honestly, she never expected to summon it again.

“You…you did that.”

“Yeah.” Bramble surveyed the white wasteland. “It’s a new thing.”

“So—so you’re a priestess like Melisandre?” Shireen tried to tackle.

“No. Never.” Can’t be a priestess in a world that doesn’t belong to her. “We went to Hardhome. Everything changed there.”

“How?” Shireen drew her hood up to protect her ears from what Bramble could only assume was the biting wind. Though she could feel its intensity, the cold couldn’t even redden Bramble’s cheeks.

“It…” She had just saved the princess from being sacrificed. Was it really the best thing to tell Shireen about the existence of the Night King and his army? “It’s not important.”

They started walking through the snow. Shireen scoffed. “Not _important?_ I can’t believe you really said that.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“I saw you create fire out of thin air,” Shireen said rather flatly. “I saw the pyre being built for me. What could possibly be scarier than that?”

“A lot of things.” Bramble tried sensing small pieces of death all the way from Castle Black, but it proved fruitless. The only sensed death was behind them with the army.

“I think I have the right to know.”

She glanced down at Shireen and felt another wave of dread. Bramble didn’t have to test Shireen’s stubbornness to know that it was there, ready and waiting to wear her down. Arguing wasn’t Bramble’s strong suit; Shireen was an expert at it.

One last attempt. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

_“Yes.”_

Bramble sighed loudly. It felt good to do that, again. To hear the sigh and feel the sigh and _be_ the sigh. “No, alright? You’ll just get scared.”

Shireen let out a shaky laugh. “I’m already scared, aren’t I? How is a little more fright going to change things?”

The wind struck out at her and she stumbled to the side. Bramble grabbed hold of the fur cloak and drew Shireen close. Instead of pulling away, the princess leaned into her and siphoned off warmth.

Where was Davos? Not far, hopefully. The old footprints were becoming harder and harder to recognize.

“Alright,” Bramble said after a short silence. “We went to Hardhome. Thousands of wildlings were gathered there. Thousands perished.”

“How?”

“The Night King. He killed the living with his army and then added them to the dead.”

Shireen sharply turned her head to Bramble. “The Night King? But—but he’s just a story—”

“No. He’s real. One of his generals tried to take me. They knew of power within me I didn’t know I had myself. Only when I was on the brink of being consumed by evil magic did the fire manifest itself. Back there was only the second time I brought it into existence. The first time I could barely control it at all.”

Bramble felt ridiculous spewing those sentences out. But, then again, what in this world was considered ridiculous?

“So…so you saw the Night King?” Shireen asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve read about him. Everybody thinks he’s imaginary. A bedtime story. But…he’s on his way here, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. That’s why Jon had us go there in the first place. He knew what it meant for them if they stayed North of the Wall.”

Shireen tripped again, so Bramble stopped and crouched in front of her. Wordlessly and without hesitation, Shireen clambered onto her back and let herself be carried again. “Did any of the wildlings get saved?”

Bramble started jogging to quicken the pace again. “A lot did. But still not enough.”

“How big is the army?” Shireen’s breath bumped with the movement.

“Hundred thousand, probably.”

Her stunned silence told Bramble that she spilled a little too much. “A…a hundred thousand?”

“I mean—well—I couldn’t get an exact head count,” Bramble rambled on, trying to backtrack.

“But there were a lot?”

She recalled the vivid memory of blue-eyed dead spanning the entire snowy shore. “Yeah,” Bramble said softly.  

“And we’re going back to the place where they’re most likely to attack first?” Shireen didn’t try to hide her sarcasm.

“Pretty much.”

“You don’t seem afraid. Are you afraid?”

“Terrified,” Bramble breathed. “This is the last way I expected my life to go.”

They ran for a little while longer with no sign of Davos. Bramble was beginning to worry. “Where is your accent from? I’ve never heard it before. Sam told me he thought you were from somewhere in Essos, but nobody could be certain.”

The question a long time coming. “I’m from a place called Thunder Bay. It’s far away.”

A place Bramble could never go back to.

About thirty minutes later they found Davos, much to her relief. The man didn’t say a word to Bramble; he only pulled Shireen into a tight embrace and held her like a father holding a daughter. Bramble looked away from the interaction. She didn’t need to be reminded of what that felt like.

“Did things go smoothly?” he finally asked after putting Shireen on the horse and making sure she was secure. “I saw smoke.”

“More or less,” Bramble said. “But we’d better get back.”

“You won’t hear any arguing from me,” Davos grunted as he got on the horse. “But are you certain _you_ want to return to Castle Black? I take it none of the Crows were very happy when they discovered that you were a girl.”

“No, they were not.”

“So why not just leave? Escape whatever fate they have for you.”

Bramble looked up at Davos, trying to tell whether or not he actually cared about her well-being or if he thought she was just stupid for going back. “I have nowhere else to go,” she said, then remembered to harden her face and scowl a little. “And I think all of you are going to want me by your side for whatever comes next.”

-

Tormund and Karsi waited for the three of them. It was a few hours before daybreak, and the wildlings barely stood visible against the snowy landscape. When Bramble saw them, she motioned for Davos and Shireen to hang back. Not because they posed a threat, but because she didn’t want them overhearing any grim, potential news.

Tormund was the first to offer her a smile, as wild as it was. “All that smoke in the air yesterday,” he prompted, “that was you? Make some fire?”

Bramble nodded. Tormund chuckled and shook his head. Crazy bastard. “Damn, what I would have given to see that.”

Karsi rolled her eyes at Tormund’s statement and said to Bramble, “We told Jon Snow that we spotted smoke rising from the south. We all believed it to be you. He’s waiting for you at Castle Black.”

“With a trial tomorrow,” Bramble found herself sighing. She’d forgotten about that. _“If_ I live long enough to get a trial.”

“Don’t worry, Little Crow,” Tormund shrugged. “Deep down, Snow knows he needs you. But you best hurry. Some of your brethren don’t see it that way. If you make it before daybreak, you may avoid most of them.”

Karsi looked over Bramble’s shoulder at Davos and Shireen. Her face was mostly unreadable, but Bramble thought she almost saw a ghost of a smile on the corner of the wildling woman’s lips. “So that’s her, eh? The princess?”

“Yeah.”

“And who’s the old man?”

“Davos.”

“He was one of Stannis’ men,” Tormund said, eyes suddenly sharp while his voice remained casual. “Stood there and watched as Mance Rayder died.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not one of Stannis’ men anymore. Here in a while he won’t be able to even go back to Stannis.” Bramble tilted her head up to the dark sky. “The storm’s stopped. Wonder if they sacrificed somebody else instead of Shireen.”

The outspoken thought disturbed both Karsi and Tormund. They exchanged heavy glances. She remembered that they were both parents. That they both had daughters.

“To think that somebody would do that to their child,” Karsi muttered with a disgusted shake of her head. “It’s evil.”

“This Lord of Light doesn’t sound like a nice god, does he?” Tormund asked to no one in particular. “All these sacrifices and shit. Burning little girls and helpless soldiers. What kind of god asks for that?”

Still, Bramble said, “An evil one.”

Tormund gave her a level gaze. “Aye. And looks like you’ve got his flames, doesn’t it?”

She made the same scoffing noise as she did when she was mute. “Don’t think so.” Bramble scratched the side of her nose and said more seriously, “But, eh, you two had better get prepared.”

“For what?” Karsi questioned. “Did you see something?”

Bramble glanced over her shoulder to make sure Davos and Shireen still remained out-of-earshot. “Yeah. Kinda. But whatever’s going to happen, it won’t be good. We’ll probably need your help.”

“We?” Tormund repeated. “Is it really going to be that big of a problem?”

“Most likely. I—” Bramble swallowed hard, which reminded her of the constant, minor ache in her throat. “I wish I could tell you. But I’m afraid that this is something I cannot change.”

“Cannot? Or afraid to?” Karsi said, though not accusingly.

Bramble shrugged. “Don’t know.” She then gave them a dark look. “Either way. Best be ready for some hell.”

-

The sound of the castle’s gates creaking open gave Bramble more chills than the cold ever could. She walked next to the steed that carried Davos and Shireen. The only question Shireen asked between the wilding camp and Castle Black was, “Were those _really_ wildlings?”

Yes, Bramble had said. They were.

Edd met them as soon as they crossed the castle’s threshold. Seeing his grave face made Bramble’s throat go dry for some reason. “Bramb,” he said lowly with the dip of his head. Bramble reciprocated the nod. There were already a few other men gathering to see the False Crow return, casting vicious and vengeful glares.

Grenn was not among them.

Davos slid off the horse and helped Shireen down. She stumbled, breath catching, as her legs nearly gave out from under her. Bramble steadied the girl with her hand. Shireen looked at Bramble, giving her a glimpse into her frightened state before it receded back into noble—albeit somewhat tired—detachment.

Edd bowed to her. “My lady,” he said, then gave another, shorter bow to Davos. “I imagine the both of you are tired. Take your belongings and one of the brothers will show you to your quarters.”

Shireen reached for Bramble’s hand as she passed, squeezing it as quickly as she could before their hands slipped away. Edd watched the exchange. His frown only deepened.

“What have you done,” he said to her. Not in accusing way. In a grieving way. The tone still hurt Bramble. It meant there were people who continued to care for her despite all that happened. The responsibility that came with that was not a light burden.

He jerked his head towards the cell and started walking. Bramble followed, keeping her head down against the growing gray sunrise. “Thorne wanted to send a search party out for you. Wanted to hunt you down. Jon crushed the idea, but don’t be fooled thinking that all their sentiments have gone.”

“I won’t,” Bramble said quietly. Everything was so slow, now, which brought an ache in her bones and a tired kind of heat.

Edd, for some reason, started to chuckle. It was low and dry and bitter, but it made Bramble turn her head to him. “First you save Pyp and Grenn,” he started to list, “then you go and save the wildlings. And now you’ve saved the damned Baratheon princess. Tryin’ to make the rest of us all look bad?”

The corner of her lip flicked up in a smile. “Something like that,” she said.

Her eyes lifted to the top of the stairs. Whatever smile cultivated turned to ash at the sight of the Lord Commander. He wore a dark expression as even darker eyes pierced Bramble. To be on the receiving end of the gaze made her feel very small.

Bramble forced herself to maintain eye contact out of spite. Jon locked her up. Jon didn’t want her to save Shireen. And yet she broke out and disobeyed orders all the same. Might as well not look so guilty about it.

And besides, Bramble didn’t want to directly look at the miasmic death that bubbled up from the bottom of Jon’s shoes and slowly trickled down the stairs.

They stopped two steps below Jon. His jaw worked as though he wanted to say something to Bramble, and _yes, say anything, just say something,_ she thought. But the jaw only locked into a hard set and cut off any possible discussions. Bramble refused to be hurt by it. “Take her back to the cell,” he instead spoke to Edd. “Strip her of her weapons.”

“Aye, Lord Commander.” Edd nudged her along as Jon stepped aside to let them pass. Her limbs grew heavier with each step, like they weighed more than anything Bramble could manage. Everything was catching up, unfortunately, leaving Bramble to trudge through the creaking halls. When Edd opened the door to her cell, she walked in without complaint, without a sound. The hard floor and a pile of shapeless clothes Bramble had strewn on the ground when digging through crates welcomed her.

She didn’t turn to watch Edd close the door. The lock clicked in an almost ironic way. Its frail aptitude mocked her and the place she was back in.

Slumping to the ground, Bramble ran fingers through her greasy hair and sighed. Though being able to run for miles—for days on end—was a nice perk, the severe fatigue that came after it was something Bramble had never experienced before. Unconsciousness pulled at her eyelids, wore her bones down, and threatened a kind of rest Bramble couldn’t afford to allow.

Bad things were going to happen tonight.

As Bramble fought an unwinnable battle against sleep, there was a soft knock at the door—accompanied by tendrils of black death crawling under the gap between the floorboards.

_Olly._

No. No no no no no no.

“Bramb?” he called quietly. “I heard you came back. Are you there?”

Grimacing at the sheer weight of the heaviness upon her, Bramble managed to choke out, “Olly! Olly—you need—listen to me. Please. You need—”

“You’re not going to change my mind. You or Jon.” Olly’s voice, though muffled by the door between them, was steely and practiced. “Do you understand? I’ll never forgive what he did.”

“Please, Olly…” Bramble’s voice had been reduced to cinders and gravel. _“Ngani.”_

He didn’t hear the Tagalog plea, for his footsteps were already striding down the hallway and out of reach. She had to…she had to _get up..._

But Bramble’s head thumped against the floor and the warmth of the fire within beckoned. The last thing she heard from outside of the cell before darkness swept her away was that the Red Woman was approaching the gates.

-

Dad was grilling at the barbecue in their backyard. Mom worked on their small garden running along their white fence. Bramble sat in their lawn chair, drinking ice tea and reading.

The grill caught on fire. Dad continued whistling and making light conversation with Mom. Bramble took another sip of her tea.

Davos walked into the backyard and stopped on her left, dressed in his heavy cloak and winter clothes. “It’s too hot for that,” Bramble said to him. Davos looked down at her.

“Don’t think so, my lady.” He gestured to the backyard. When Bramble turned her gaze back, snow covered the backyard and the sky was a starless, moonless black. Mom and Dad staggered upright, blue eyes shining against dead skin and snapping teeth.

Bramble drank some more of her tea. She was still too warm from the summer sun.

“Better get going, my lady,” said Davos. “You’ve got a world to save.”

“But this world isn’t mine,” Bramble said back. She casually watched as her parents shambled and lurched forward, screeching and hands reaching out to grab her. “Not my problem.”

Fire began to rain from the sky, punching holes in the void above them and turning the world red and angry and bright. Bramble watched as fire destroyed the white fence, destroyed the barbecue grill, destroyed the blue-eyed corpses of Mom and Dad. From their burnt and blackened bodies wriggled out ethereal, tentacled masses of Death Corrupted.

“It is now.”

On Bramble’s right was Jon. Blood poured from his chest and melted the snow. Fiery light made the blood glisten and shine like precious, liquid jewels.

Jon pinned a sharp and stern gaze to Bramble that went about six inches out her back. “It is now.”

The raining fire melted the snow entirely. It was now water, ocean water, as cold and unforgiving as Westeros. Bramble tried to lunge away as it swelled above her, but the waves drug her down below its surface, down, down, down, as _passengers screamed and the plane’s wing shattered, and Mom slumped in her seat and Bramble’s life jacket seemed to crush her lungs—_

Bramble opened her eyes and sucked in cold air. It took a few seconds to reorient herself. She had fallen asleep on the floor and was left with an aching back and a stiff jaw. Whatever dream that manifested in her mind was fading, now, with only fragmented pieces of blood and fire and snow haunting her mind.

The room was nearly black. And with it was a bitter feeling of dread and urgency. It took Bramble a few moments of rubbing the sides of her head and shaking away the fog before her cognitive senses returned. And then she remembered—

“Oh, fuck.”

Bramble scrambled to her feet and felt her way to the door. Dim torchlight flickered underneath the crack, and she heard somebody snoring on the other end.

Without thinking, her foot brutally connected with the door and sent it shattering open. Bramble stepped through and into the hall. Grenn—because of _course_ it was Grenn—had fallen out of his chair in the sudden burst of chaos and commotion. His curses were lost upon Bramble, for she was already running down the hall and out into the courtyard.

_He’s going to die anyway. Jon **needs** to die._

_This isn’t about Jon!_

It was about Olly.

Bramble had saved _everyone_ she wanted to save and more. Why couldn’t she save Olly? He was just a boy! He was just a boy who listened to the words of false brothers. If she could just tear him away and shake some sense into him and say that everything was going to _be alright—_

From beyond the walls of the castle, Death swept in and took a life.

It clung to her heart, burning away like acidic poison. Bramble stopped in her place, eyes stretched wide with horror. She let out a “no” and a soft, stifled gasp. Then she was running again, but her movements felt lethargic and slow, like everything was a nightmare instead of real life. The walls did seem too narrow and long, constructed from half-conscious memories and fears.

But it wasn’t a dream. The air was still cold, the moon’s light was still captured in snow, and Jon still lay in the courtyard below a post with the inscription TRAITOR nailed on it. The only thing that pooled under now was his own blood, as dark as the death that once followed him.

Standing several feet away from Jon was a boy. A boy with freckles on his face and a bloody knife in his hand.

Beneath him was a shadow blacker than anything she had seen.

“Olly,” Bramble uttered. No other words, no other movements, would come to her. She had been broken, twisted until she cracked and shattered.

He snapped his attention up to where she stood on the landing. All was still except for their breaths escaping out into the night and hearts beating blood through them. In the moonlight, Olly’s expression reflected his rage, uncertainty, sorry, and fright.

Then Ghost began to howl, and Olly turned and fled.

The world returned with an unforgiving sharpness. Grenn’s footsteps fell heavy behind her, and when the Crow saw what had happened—who was laying lifeless in the courtyard—he hoarsely cried, “Jon!”

Davos had come out to see what was going on from the western side of the castle. When his eyes landed on Jon, he rushed down the same as Grenn to see what had become of the Lord Commander.

But Bramble stayed where she was.

_Fix it. You can fix it. You can still save him!_

Something told her no, though. No, she could not. Olly’s fate had been sealed when his dagger plunged into Jon’s heart, and not even Bramble’s powers could stop the forces now in motion.

So she wiped away a tear, shoved down a helpless sob, and walked with shaking legs to help Davos and Grenn.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay to those who read this. Things got busy, and the next thing you know it's been forever since an update.
> 
> I hope you guys are enjoying this! I know I am.


	21. Chapter 21

The world was back to the way it was again. Dark. Depressing. Filled with death. The usual.

Bramble stood over Jon, memorizing where each stab wound was and the look of his lifeless brown eyes. What should she have been feeling? Guilt? Grief? Anger?

But she felt nothing. Just emptiness. Was it because she knew he wasn’t really gone? Or because something had cracked in Bramble and she couldn’t cope with any real emotions?

Edd moved a hand over Jon’s eyes and closed them shut. Through gritted teeth he said, “Thorne did this.”

Davos, who had quickly grabbed Shireen from her quarters and brought her back to the safe room, held a protective arm around her and lowly asked, “How many men do you think you can trust?”

“Trust?” Edd looked around at all the darkly-dressed figures. “The men in this room.”

“Does the wolf know you?”

Edd nodded.

“Better go get him. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Bramble suddenly sensed the presence of a creature moments before she knocked on the door. She would have drawn her sword along with the rest of the men, but Bramble still remained as unequipped as the day she was born.

“Ser Davos?” Melisandre’s voice sounded faint and muffled. Bramble looked to Davos, Davos looked to Bramble, Shireen looked to both of them, and the rest looked to all of them.

It took a moment to realize that they were waiting on her to give some kind of signal. Though unable to stop a small scowl from crawling on her face, Bramble waved a hand for someone to let Melisandre in. When the door creaked open, a dark swath of red emerged from the black hall beyond. Melisandre’s pale face was a beautiful canvas of loss, confusion, and hopelessness.

Bramble didn’t have it in her to feel bad.

Melisandre’s eyes glanced over Bramble, Davos, and Shireen, but they ultimately fell upon Jon’s corpse and stayed there. The longer she looked at the Red Woman, the more Bramble saw that there was no light in the priestess. No danger. No faith. Only a terrible kind of grief that overwhelmed her as she examined the dead Lord Commander. If Melisandre noticed Davos taking Shireen to the other side of the room and setting her in a chair, she didn’t react.

Her slender fingers grazed over the cold, sticky blood that glistened on Jon’s black leathers in the firelight. “I saw him in the flames,” she whispered, not to any of them, but to something unseen. “Fighting at Winterfell.”

“I can’t speak for the flames,” Davos said lowly as he drew near the fire again. “But he’s gone.”

Melisandre lifted her hand and stroked Jon’s cheek. Then she drew it away like it was a sin to have touched him. Before Bramble could try and say anything to Melisandre—and even if she had, she wasn’t sure just _what_ she would say—the woman turned and walked out of the room.

The door shut so ominously Bramble had a moment of doubt about the way things were going to happen.

Bramble sighed and sat down next to the window. Dawn crept in like a quiet invader. The pale light reminded her of yesterday, when she too snuck into the Baratheon camp at morning and ran back out with Shireen in tow.

Shireen slumped in the chair, gray in the face and exhaustion circled under her eyes. Davos was about the same. The two had already been through so much already, and now this. Bramble couldn’t even take comfort in knowing that things would get easier.

Davos pulled up a chair beside Bramble (why he chose to sit next to her, she didn’t know) and groaned as he settled into it. What an old man. He sounded just like her dad.

_Don’t think about that._

Edd returned with Ghost. The dire wolf whined upon seeing Jon’s lifeless body and went to his master’s side. He got bigger with each week, it seemed, currently coming up to Bramble’s waist.

“What is Thorne going to do?” Pyp asked, being the one brave enough to speak after the tense silence following Melisandre’s departure. He stood next to Grenn near the door. Grenn, who wouldn’t look at Bramble. And Bramble, who tried her hardest to not look at Grenn.

Ghost licked at Jon’s hand and whined again. “He’ll have seen we didn’t come,” Davos said plainly. “Thorne will have made it official by now: Castle Black is his.”

“I don’t _care_ who sits at the high table,” Edd growled, approaching Jon once more. “Jon was my friend. And those fuckers butchered him. Now we return the favor.”

“We don’t have the numbers,” Davos firmly reminded.

“We have a dire wolf,” Edd argued, “and we have Bramb.” He pointed to her.

Bramble knew it was coming. She shook her head. “No. I’m not going to risk burning this place down.”

“Then don’t!” Pyp said, taking a few steps forward. “You can still take them down without a spark.”

Her scowl grew. “I can still get run through with a sword and die all the same. They’ll know I’m here with all of you. They’ll be prepared if I do anything.”

“So you’re just going to let them do this? Take control?” Edd asked angrily. “Bramb, they _killed_ Jon!”

“I know,” Bramble said flatly. She didn’t appreciate being yelled at. “But we’re still greatly outnumbered. If you put me in there, chances are that I’ll massacre them, they’ll kill me, then they’ll all kill you. It’ll be a blood bath. You know a lot of those brothers still out there aren’t bad. They just know which side will come out on top.” She forced herself to not think about Olly. “We need more men.”

“But we don’t _have_ more men.” Edd had withdrawn his anger when faced with the blunt truth.

Davos had her back without hesitation. “I didn’t know Lord Commander Snow for long, but I don’t believe he would have wanted his friends to die for nothing.” He paused as the same idea Bramble already had formed in his mind. “We may have to fight, but we don’t need to die. Not if we have help.”

“And who is gonna help us?”

“You’re not the only who owe your lives to Jon Snow,” Davos prompted.

Revelation dawned on all their faces. “Bolt the door,” Edd commanded. He started walking to the exit. “Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

“Let me go,” Bramble found herself saying. “I’m faster and they’ll trust my word more.”

Edd gave his head a shake. “No. You stay here. If things go to shit before I get back, they’re gonna need you.”

Like Melisandre, he didn’t give Bramble a chance to get another word in before he left the room and the door shutting soundly behind him. Pyp was quick to follow orders and bolt it. He looked about as pale as when a white-fletched arrow almost ended his life.

So then all of them waited for Thorne to come knocking while Jon’s cold dead body lay right in the middle of everything. It was all so terrible that it had to be funny.

Ten minutes into the awkward silence Bramble realized she was hungry. Super fucking hungry.

She got up, feeling every single eye on her, and wandered over to Jon’s desk. They were in his chambers, after all. Bramble started to rummage through all his drawers and private matters, wishing she could sense the presence of food as well as she did death.

“What in seven hells do you think you’re bloody doing?”

Bramble didn’t bother to glance at Pyp, who had asked the question. “Looking for food. I’m hungry. I haven’t fucking eaten since…” she paused, eyes darting around as calculations added up in her head. “Three days ago? Holy shit.” Her search continued. Jon _had_ to have kept snacks around. Brooding and being dark burned a lot of calories. Bramble would know.

“You—you can’t just do that,” Pyp poorly tried to argue. “He’s dead! Have some fucking respect, Bramb!”

She ignored being yelled at again. “Who ever said it was disrespectful to eat?” Her eyes finally flickered to Pyp, who, for once, was struggling to come up with the right words. “When Jon comes back, I’m sure he won’t mind if I’ve eaten a candy or two.” Bramble’s hand grabbed onto what she was looking for, and she pulled out a small box containing some wrapped hard caramels. It had probably been sent by some royal wanting to gain his favor. She unwrapped one and popped it into her mouth.

Grenn finally lifted his head and looked at Bramble. He looked like he didn’t want to say anything—Grenn was never a talker in larger groups—but he couldn’t force himself to keep quiet.

“Did…did you say, ‘when’?”

“When what?” Bramble said as a candy rolled around in her cheek.

“‘When Jon comes back.’ You said that. You just said that.” Grenn’s words no longer struggled to come out. He was staring Bramble directly in the eyes.

The candy suddenly felt like a rock. Everybody stood there, realizing the fact that Bramble had _indeed_ just said _when_ Jon was coming back, not _if._

Fucking hell.

She just gave away everything. Was that allowed?

Apparently.

“You _knew,_ didn’t you? You fucking knew!” Grenn pointed an angry, betrayed finger at Jon. “You saw he was gonna die! And you did nothing!”

“What?” Pyp breathed, but he too was already edging on betrayal. “No. No, you wouldn’t—”

Bramble only lowered her gaze for an instant. It told the truth better than any words could.

Pyp made a noise, and the environment suddenly grew hostile. Bramble forced down the rising panic and continued sucking on the candy. Even when she _had_ a voice, she wasn’t that great of a talker. How could she possibly say anything that wouldn’t make everyone want to kill her more?

Bramble could almost smell the soil from the hole she had dug herself in.

“I’m sorry, but what’s going on?” Davos rightly questioned. He directly addressed Bramble. “Did you know this would happen to Snow?”

Grenn shook his head in disgust and turned away. If Edd were still here, she might have had a sword pointed at her throat. That could still happen, with the way the rest of the brothers were looking at her. They were still just a little too afraid of her to do anything.

With candy sweet like decay in her mouth, Bramble said to the confined room, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Chaos broke loose in a perfectly-timed instant. Insults and accusations went flying. Amidst it all, Bramble had to face that she was no longer a Crow. Of course, she _knew_ that nothing would be the same once her gender was revealed. But to see them acting as if she had betrayed them all for no reason was…well, a punch to the gut.

So she did what this world taught her to do. Take the sadness and turn it into kindling for anger.

Bramble scowled and crunched down on the candy so hard it shattered like glass in her mouth. She balled a fist and, feeling heat roar to life in her chest, ruthlessly swung an outstretched arm without turning her body. It connected with the wall she was standing up against. Wood splintered like a gunshot as it broke against the force.

The room fell into an immediate silence. Heat had spread from her chest to her neck and limbs, whispering and wishing to be freed. Bramble withdrew her fist from the small wooden crater she created and shook away splinters that were probably older than everyone in the room combined.

Her parents would be disappointed by such a display of unnecessary viciousness. Dad especially. He had enough violence inflicted on him growing up; he never wanted to see it in his daughter.

_But they’re gone, and you’re left with nothing but being good at violence._

Shireen stood strong amongst the men. She had already seen what Bramble could do. Unlike the rest, though, Shireen radiated the silent trust that she wasn’t going to go any further.

At least somebody had faith in Bramble. She was probably the only person who did.

Her fist relaxed. Sighing and pursing her lips, Bramble confessed, “Yeah. Yeah, I knew Jon was going to die. But—” she continued before anyone could interrupt her, “but this isn’t the end.”

_You sound like the dumbest fuck in the world._

“And what do you mean by that?” Out of everyone, Davos was able to keep his cool.

“I mean that this is supposed to happen.”

“This is _supposed_ to happen?” Pyp repeated disbelievingly. “Jon fucking dying was supposed to happen? Is he gonna come back, yeah? Is he gonna come back from the fucking dead? Or did you want this to happen so _you_ could take over?” Murmurs of agreement followed Pyp’s accusation. To have them even _think…_

Bramble refused to look hurt. She refused to do anything but scowl to keep the weakness away. “No. I never wanted to be here. And I can’t wait to leave.” A flicker of something passed over Grenn’s otherwise angry face. “We wait for Edd to return with the wildlings. Our position needs to be secure before anything else can happen.”

“And what is that, exactly? You don’t want to help us. You didn’t want to help Jon. How do we know you’re not just waiting for all of us to be executed?” Pyp had gotten his mouth back, and it brought another rise from the brothers. Not as explosive as it had been moments ago, but steady enough to be more dangerous. Somebody—Yate, possibly, or Ryle and Ean—would try and run a sword through her. Then she’d fight back, blood would spill, and Edd would come back to more dead brothers.

“Not to be the voice of reason,” Davos said with a dryness that matched his intent, “but Bramble came back here to see this through. There’s something in that.”

“Why did you come back, eh? Why’d you come back just to stand aside and let Jon fucking die—”

Bramble strode across the room and grabbed the collar of Pyp’s shirt, hauling him off his feet and against the wall. His mouthy attitude vanished the second he saw her coming for him, fire in her demeanor and fists clenched. “Listen here, you little asshole,” Bramble hissed. Her face was inches from Pyp’s, and she could see her reflection in his dark, frightened eyes. Heat radiated between them. “I saved your life, remember? I saw an arrow go right through your skinny throat and made you choke on your own blood. You could have died and we all still would be standing here.” Bramble pressed Pyp harder against the wall for a second before letting go. All color had drained from his face.

She faced the room. Drawn swords glinted in the firelight. “This moment was going to happen with or without me. You understand? What happens from here on out _in this room_ is so important that if I risked changing it, I risked changing a course of events that determine whether or not this world will survive the army of the _fucking_ dead marching this way.” She directly looked at Grenn and asked the question dripping with sarcasm, “You want to make sure people are still living by the end of winter? Then Jon has to die, first.”

With an aggravated sigh, Bramble went back to the chair she’d originally been sitting in and sat down so hard that the chair scraped against the wooden floor. The noise was especially loud, considering the complete and utter silence hanging in the room. But nobody said anything. Nobody looked her way. After a while, swords were sheathed and the tension calmed somewhat. Bramble didn’t want to even _guess_ the look on Davos’ face. So she kept her head down and arms folded, feeling the heat subside.

And the worst part of it all? Bramble was still starving.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bramble is an angry girl.
> 
> And sorry there was such a delay in this being posted. I wanted it to be longer, but the urge to post became stronger than the urge to write more content. Life and school, am I right?


	22. Chapter 22

Alliser Thorne and his men came once in the afternoon to persuade them to come out and let this all be.

Nobody did.

He came again at nightfall with more men and more lies, promising Davos that he and Shireen would be safe and protected if they stepped out. But Shireen just shook her head once. Bramble gave the princess a soft smile. In all the darkness, Shireen was still here like a small light bobbing up and down in a vast black ocean of death.

Davos grabbed Longclaw and walked to the front of the stifling room. “I’ve never been much of a fighter,” he confessed and, after a sigh, said, “apologies for what you’re about to see.” He unsheathed Longclaw. The rest of the men who had swords followed. Bramble took Shireen to the far end of the room, near the spot where she made a crater in the wall with her fist.

Pyp looked lost and panicked amidst the Crows. Bramble made a frustrated noise and got his attention. She beckoned him over with a wave of her arm, making sure he saw her scowl. Pyp scowled back but, after a moment of hesitation, quickly made his way over to the both of them.

Grenn had gravitated towards their area. Whether it was just practicality or if he thought he could protect them in some way, Bramble didn’t know. He glanced back at her and roughly asked, “Edd’s gonna come back with some wildlings, right?”

She unclenched her jaw and replied, “I think so.”

“You _think so?”_

“I’m gonna fucking burn your eyes out, Grenn, if you doubt me one more time.” Bramble didn’t mean for her words to sound so vicious, but they came out as a threating growl. Grenn frowned at her—not exactly angrily—and stared back ahead at the entrance.

The first blow to the door made Shireen grab Bramble’s hand. She held it tight.

The next four blows came in brutal succession. The fifth blow splintered the wooden door, and the seventh blow created a small gap.

Ghost snarled and snapped his teeth; the dire wolf was ready to die as much as the rest of them. Bramble would see this place burned to the ground before Shireen was back in death’s clutches. Pushing Shireen further behind her, Bramble raised her free hand like some dumb fucking superhero ready to blast fire at the bad guys.

Canada only produced two good superheroes: Wolverine and Deadpool. Bramble doubted she’d make it onto the list. Superheroes fought for something good, and Bramble didn’t know what she was fighting for at all.

A heavy axe broke through the door. Davos readied Longclaw, the fire roared under Bramble’s skin, the men prepared to die and—

Something heavier slammed against Castle Black’s gate. The sound was so loud it drew the attention of everyone inside and outside of the room.

The attack on the door stopped as another attack begun.

Bramble let out a small sigh of relief when Thorne and his men retreated. The cavalry had come. Fucking finally.

She lowered her hand. “What’s going on?” Shireen whispered as the men in the room poured outside to see if the wildlings had really turned the tables.

“Edd came back,” Bramble replied. The sense of dread had returned from its brief absence. Her throat hurt again, too. “He came back with the Free Folk.”

What she didn’t say was that the wait was over. And everybody would have to see if Bramble was right all along.

Nobody liked that much pressure on them.

-

Seeing Tormund again wasn’t pleasant under the circumstances. When Shireen was put back in bed—with so much protest that it took some convincing from both Bramble and Davos to get her to go—they again retreated to the room where Jon’s body rested.

“So this was the hell you were talking about, eh?” Tormund lowly muttered to Bramble as they stood over Jon. “I expected a war, but…” he shook his head, eyes distant. “Not this.”

Tormund scanned Jon’s body once more. “Took a lot of knives.” He stepped back to address Bramble. “So what’s it gonna be, Little Crow? Need to burn some bodies? Or something else?”

Bramble didn’t like the fact that Tormund was going over Edd and Grenn to ask her what to do next. She was just the traitor who let Jon die. Both he and Edd had been informed of Bramble’s betrayal upon their return to Castle Black. Tormund took it a lot better than Edd had. He didn’t threaten Bramble—and maybe he just didn’t have it in him to threaten her—but he made his opinion about the situation clear. It was enough so drive the wedge even further between Bramble and her former brothers.

“No burning,” Bramble eventually said, keeping her gaze away from Edd, Pyp, and Grenn. “But something else, yeah.”

She looked to Davos, who immediately knew what was on her mind because he had been thinking it too. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered dryly. But the sarcasm quickly slipped. “Can you?”

“Melisandre is our only hope,” Bramble replied. The words tasted sour in her mouth. “She may be able to bring Jon back.”

“And you’re sure that it’s supposed to be this way?” Edd put in skeptically. “You’re not just fucking with us?”

Bramble slowly turned her head to him, expression flat as her voice. “I only fuck people who pay me.” Her retort made Edd blink. “And I’m not getting paid at all here. So no.”

Tormund laughed, thankfully.

“You’d better go get Melisandre, Davos,” she said, getting back on topic. “Before Jon gets any deader.”

“Oh, no.” Davos shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere near that woman alone.” His expression took a dark turn. “Not after what she tried to do to Shireen. Can’t you just go and get her? You’re the one who has the best idea of what’s going on, after all.”

Bramble made a face. “No? I hate her.”

“Sounds like you two best go as a team, then,” Tormund said, amused by the conversation during such a terrible moment.

Davos and Bramble both stared at each other in resignation before silently agreeing. They left the room and walked down the dimly-lit halls that creaked from the wind.

“So,” the older man said gruffly, “you’ve gotten yourself into quite the predicament. If you’re wrong about all this, you’re fucked. If you’re right about all this, we’re fucked.”

“Sounds about right,” Bramble sighed. “My life is one big circle-jerk.”

He chuckled a bit. “From what you told that Crow, at least you got paid for it.”

“Not enough, believe me.” Certainly not enough in Ashford, not enough in King’s Landing, and not enough in between.

Bramble tried to forget her time in King’s Landing. Then again, she tried to forget her time spent everywhere here.

There was a short silence. Then Davos said in a quieter voice, “I never got to thank you. For saving the princess. You put your life at risk for her.”

“Risking my life was never a worry,” Bramble said back, trying to keep her emotions under check. “But I couldn’t let it happen to her. Not that way. Shireen deserved—deserves better.” Though a lot more went unsaid, Davos heard it all anyway.

“Aye, that she does.” Davos sucked in a breath as they approached Melisandre’s chambers. “Well. Let’s go talk to the woman who tried to sacrifice her.”

Bramble felt the Red Woman’s presence seeping under the door and oozing out of the walls. She didn’t want to knock, so with much strain Davos took on the responsibility. He rapped twice, and after a brief silence a soft voice called, “Enter.”

They shared another look before he opened the door and stepped in. Bramble reluctantly followed behind, feeling the ancient sensation of Melisandre’s power wash over her. _Do this for Jon,_ she thought, even though what she _had_ done for Jon got him dead on a table.

And then there was the woman herself. Melisandre sat in front of the room’s fireplace, staring at the flames with listless eyes. She didn’t tear them away as Davos and Bramble slowly walked further into the room.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Davos started. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You interrupt nothing.”

The closer they approached, the clearer Melisandre’s appearance became. Hair disheveled, shoulders slumped. Her hands clutched the thick fabric of her cloak with a sort of terror that didn’t match the rest of her demeanor.

After a pause too long to be comfortable, Davos continued on. “I…er, suppose you know why we’re here.”

Melisandre still didn’t look to them. “I will after you tell me.”

Davos glanced sideways at Bramble and gave the slightest motion of his head. Times like this Bramble wished she was a mute again.

But she sucked it up and said, “It’s about the Lord Commander.”

“The former Lord Commander,” Melisandre corrected distantly.

Bramble swallowed back the ache in her throat. “He doesn’t have to be.”

The statement sounded loud in her ears. Melisandre finally lifted her gaze from the flames. Once it could have pinned the both of them down in a mere second; now, though, it was devoid of all power.

“What are you talking about, Child of Fire?” Melisandre asked tiredly.

Davos took a turn speaking. “Do you know of…any magic that could help him? Bring him back?”

Bramble was glad Davos chose to tread lightly. If she had gone to Melisandre all by herself, she might not have gotten this far. Bluntness didn’t work well in most situations here, as Bramble’s past decisions showed.

“If you want to help him, leave him be.”

“But can it be done?”

Melisandre took a breath. “There are…some with this power.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

Davos’ voice grew firmer. “Have you seen it done?”

She seemed reluctant to answer. “I met a man who came back from the dead. But the priest who did it…it shouldn’t have been possible.”

“But it _was._ It could be. Now.”

Melisandre suddenly stood. “Not for me.”

“Not for you?” Davos followed her away from the flames. Bramble lingered. He could handle this, right? The conversation was going to happen with or without her. “I saw you drink poison that should have killed you. I saw you give birth to a demon made of shadows. I—”

The Red Woman spun on him. “The vision of the great victory in the flames was destroyed because of one girl.” She looked upon Bramble. “A girl with the Lord’s power at her fingertips. Tell me, Crow, were you part of his plan? Or did you ruin it with your kidnapping of the princess? Did an entire army die because of you?”

The sudden turn took Bramble off-guard. Trying to collect her thoughts, Bramble bought some time and walked closer to the fireplace. “You were the one who sent an entire army to its death.” Alright, probably not the best way to start out. “Shireen’s sacrifice would mean nothing. Stannis was never going to win.”

Instead of asking how Bramble knew this, Melisandre asked with surprising despair, “Then it was all a lie? All of it?” She braced herself against a nightstand. Seeing such a shattering of faith almost made Bramble feel bad for her. But she remembered what Melisandre tried to do to Shireen and held fast to the disgust.

Glancing over her shoulder, Melisandre whispered to Davos, “You were right all along.” Her voice broke against the howling wind outside. “The Lord never spoke to me.”

“Not exactly.” Unwilling to look at Melisandre any longer, Bramble crouched down in front of the flames. In a spur of morbid curiosity, she stuck her hand into the fireplace and felt warm tendrils twirl and twist around her fingers. The fire she possessed inside began to dance along with the ones touching her skin. It was an odd sensation. “Have you ever considered that you just got the wrong person?”

A long silence. Bramble continued to play with the flames. There was nothing in them but element and a simple will: to burn, to grow, to live. The Lord of Light probably didn’t feel like that, so she assumed she was safe continuing.

“What are you saying?” Melisandre questioned slowly. Bramble turned her hand over, entranced by yet another ability.

“I’m saying that these visions of yours aren’t false. Stannis just wasn’t the…what was it? Prince Who Was Promised?” In a murmur Bramble added, “What a mouthful.”

“And you believe Jon Snow is?” Melisandre inched closer to Bramble. She looked up at the woman, the disciple of a god she’d lost faith in. Whatever Bramble said next could restore or destroy it.

“I don’t know. Maybe?” _Keep it vague. Then you can’t be blamed if things go to shit._ “I just saw Jon coming back. And you bringing him back.”

Melisandre put her hand on Bramble’s shoulder. All she saw was a scared, simple woman. Was this who Melisandre really was? Without the fanaticism and the danger and the arrogance. “Where did you see this? In the flames?”

Bramble retracted her hand and stood. She was about as tall as Melisandre. They squared off evenly. “You’d think so, but no. I saw a lot of things at a lot of different times.”

“But you saw Jon live again?”

“Yeah.”

“And what else did you see?”

“More than what you have in some ways, less than others. But it doesn’t matter right now.” Bramble turned and gestured to the door. “So do you think you can bring Jon back?”

Doubt once again crossed Melisandre’s face. “I’ve never had this gift.”

Davos came to stand beside Bramble. “Have you ever tried?”

-

Water sluiced back into its basin as Melisandre squeezed the rag of excess. Jon now lay on the table with nothing but cloth covering his privates. Bramble had helped undress him for the ritual. The wind continued to screech and scorn the North, but there was a kind of silence in the room that couldn’t be named.

Melisandre stood over Jon for several moments, eyes cast down and unsure what exactly to do. Her eyes flickered up to Bramble for assurance. All she could do was give the Red Woman a small nod. Bramble had already started to worry that _something_ would go wrong. Maybe because she spilled the beans on Jon’s short-lived death. Maybe because she told Melisandre that she _should_ be able to bring Jon back. Too many maybes, too little certainties.

But Bramble couldn’t voice any of her doubts out loud. Not when everyone already latched onto the hope she gave them.

The ritual began. Melisandre wiped off the blood caked onto Jon’s chest and stomach. Rivulets of rust-stained water dripped onto the floor, their color glinting in the firelight. She then cut off pieces of his hair, chanting archaic Valyrian in hushed tones. The locks were tossed into a lit brazier. The process repeated twice more.

Melisandre took a pitcher and gently began to pour water over Jon’s head, wetting his hair while continuing to chant. Her hand caressed his scalp in an almost intimate way. When she finished, she set the pitcher back down and stopped at Jon’s side. Again, Melisandre glanced at Bramble before continuing. She placed trembling hands on his chest and finished the prayer to the Lord of Light.

Nothing happened.

Another look at Bramble, who couldn’t hide the tension furrowing on her brows. Melisandre placed her hands back on Jon and repeated the foreign words, this time closing her eyes. Then they snapped back open to see if it worked. When he still lay dead, Melisandre dug her fingernails into his cold skin and said the fervent prayer three more times. The last one was just above a whisper, followed by a distraught sigh and a begging, “Please.”

Bramble had said that word in the exact same way when the plane crashed. _“Please, please,” she whispered to God. She wasn’t sure if she was saying it out loud. “Please save us.”_

Maybe it wasn’t God, but something—or someone—saved Bramble that day.

Hopefully Jon wouldn’t get the exact same fate she had.

Melisandre removed her hands from Jon and gave a despairing glance at Davos before turning it to Bramble. Everyone in the room looked to Bramble, the one who had said this would work.

But she couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed up and the silence was too loud for any other noise. Tormund took her speechlessness for the end and shook his head and left. Edd, Pyp, and Grenn did the same. Melisandre lingered only moments longer before she, too, departed. Davos approached Jon, and Bramble moved to follow suit—

**_Get out._ **

The voice-that-wasn’t-her-voice was so sudden and invasive that it made Bramble flinch. Her heart suddenly began to race like something was approaching, something greater than she could fathom. It was like when Mance had been sacrificed, only in reverse and much, much more terrifying.

Bramble turned and fled from the room. She stumbled into the hallway, gasping for air in a too-tight throat and trying to get far away from the room. It was coming, it was coming from the other side to deliver the infinite expanse of a soul through the blackened gateway of death.

_And it was something to not be seen by her eyes._

Somebody caught Bramble in her frantic state. It was Grenn, of all people. _Glad it’s him._

“Bramb?” Her head was swimming and there was a strain on _everything._ The world compressed upon her and she grabbed Grenn’s collar in fear because she was—

She was _gasping for air but her hands pressed against the roof of the plane’s cabin. Everybody was screaming in the darkness as the cold ocean swept in to claim them. There had to be a way out there had to be a way out and where was Mom and Dad? And the water rose and Bramble sucked in a final breath. She pushed down to swim to escape but it was so so black and she couldn’t—she couldn’t breathe and Mom—Dad—her lungs were on fire but this couldn’t be it so she took a breath and it burned it burned but then—_

The world cleared. Bramble found her shoulders being tightly gripped by Grenn. They were both standing. Everybody in the hall was standing and not drowning.

She lifted a hand to her nose. Her finger came away smeared red.

Bramble locked eyes with Grenn and smiled.

In the room beyond, Jon gasped for life.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My summer semester is over, my stress levels are down, the sun is shining, and I can write again.


	23. Chapter 23

Jon Snow sat upright on the table with Davos’ cloak covering his naked body. The knife wounds still gleamed brightly on his pale skin. His breath was rapid and uneven, eyes darting wildly as he tried to get a grip on the world he had been thrust back into.

Bramble remembered the disorientation well. Only, Jon returned to his own world. She didn’t.

But she was right about everything. Bramble was mature enough to not rub it in everybody’s dumb faces, but damn did she come close.

Melisandre looked utterly aghast that her power had worked. She was so stunned that she grabbed Bramble’s arm for support. Bramble made a face. Since when had Melisandre decided that they were close?

Still, she let the woman keep ahold of it. Her mother would have wanted her to show a little respect for the one who brought Jon back from the dead. Jon was, after all, Mom’s favorite.

“What do you remember?” Davos asked calmly.

Jon looked up at him, brown eyes finally focusing. Their lucidity gave way to the horror of what had happened. “They stabbed me,” he said brokenly. His face twisted in anguish. “Olly…put a knife in my heart.”

Bramble’s own heart crumpled at the reminder. She couldn’t think about what was going to happen to him. She couldn’t think of how she had failed.

Jon slowly shook his head. “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

“The lady brought you back,” Davos explained, gesturing to Melisandre. She regained her strength and strode across the room to crouch in front of Jon.

“After they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?”

Jon’s horror only grew. “Nothing,” he said. “There was nothing at all.”

Bramble may have had an explanation for that thanks to what she felt moments before Jon’s soul returned to his body, but she figured she didn’t need to dig herself into another hole. When things were calmer maybe she’d give some insight.

“The Lord let you come back for a reason. Stannis was not the Prince Who Was Promised, though someone has to be.”

Jon only bowed his head, loose black curls veiling his face.

“Would you give us a moment?” Davos glanced at Bramble, making it clear she needed to stay.

Melisandre gathered her skirts and departed. Bramble closed the door and pulled up a chair beside the one Davos sat in. They faced Jon, who finally _looked_ at Bramble. It was the first time he’d done so since Hardhome.

“You were dead,” Davos stated plainly. “And now you’re not. It’s completely fucking mad seems to me. I can only imagine how it seems to you.”

Jon wasn’t the intimidating Lord Commander. He was just scared and heartbroken and young, now. Bramble remembered they were around the same age. She couldn’t help but sympathize with him because she knew the terror he felt, the confusion, the wrongness of it all.

“I…I did what I thought was right,” Jon confessed to them. Tears glistened in his eyes. “And I got murdered for it. And now I’m back.” A sob escaped him. _“Why?”_

Davos turned his head to Bramble for an explanation. She rubbed her tired, marred face and leaned forward. “I can’t exactly describe it,” she finally spoke. “I just know that there are greater powers at work here. You’re unfortunate enough to be in the middle of it all.” Bramble lifted her gaze and stared at Jon. The fire guided her next words. “The fight between the living and the dead is far from over. And the living need you. So you go on. You fight for as long as you can. You clean up as much of the shit as you can.”

Jon shook his head. Sadness still enveloped him. “I don’t know how to do that. I thought I did. I failed.”

“Good,” Davos said. “Now go fail again.”

Bramble almost smiled. That sounded like something her dad would say.

She stood up. “You need some clothes, yeah? It’s probably cold in here.” If it was, Bramble couldn’t feel it. “And you can’t go making your great return buck naked.”

They should call her Bramble, The Destroyer of Moments.

-

The warm pool of water greeted Bramble. She made no languid movements stepping in; the desire to bathe was so fierce there was only the frantic splashing of water before Bramble found herself submerged under the surface.

After scarfing down an undignified amount of soup and bread from the kitchen, Bramble headed straight to the baths with a bundle of clean clothes she’d scavenged from storage. Though there was no longer a chill in her bones to soothe, the layers of sweat and grime and blood needed washing off. And since there was a break between one dire situation and the next, Bramble took the opportunity to sneak off.

She scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was red and raw, the past few days no longer lingering in sight and smell. Then Bramble washed her short hair repeatedly until the scent of smoke and oil was gone.

And then she sat back against the edge of the bath and stared up at the ceiling. The lapse in chaos allowed Bramble to think. Tears immediately sprung to her eyes.

There was that flashback, for one. Bramble’s memory of drowning alone in a trapped plane had been hazy at best. But during Jon’s return it came back with a vengeful clarity. She could still vividly feel the uncontrollable panic, taste the saltwater in her mouth, hear the plane creaking as it sunk. One moment she was fighting for her life, banging on sealed-shut walls. The next she was too weak to swim anymore, and her quickly lapsing body cried for relief. She breathed without knowing it, and the ocean flooded in to claim space in her lungs.

And then? Then Bramble died.

But she found herself throwing up seawater on the sandy shores of Dorne, naked and alive. Memory between the glaring blackness and the warm sunlight were unattainable. Bramble hoped it stayed that way. She wasn’t ready to see what lay on the other side of death’s veil.

She wished she didn’t remember her final moments so clearly. It was just one more burden Bramble would have to suffer.

Olly was the second, greater reason why Bramble struggled to keep back tears. He and the other mutineers were sentenced to die tomorrow morning. _He’s just a boy,_ she wanted to wail at Jon. _He didn’t know! He’s just a confused boy._

It’d be pointless, though. The law was the law. _Break him out, go on the run, get him somewhere safe—_

Bramble couldn’t do anything. Not without betraying Jon. Again.

_Jon is alive again. Olly soon won’t be. Get him out of here._

No, no. She just couldn’t.

_But why not?_

Bramble buried her head in wet hands and stifled what emotions threatened to come up. Everything was just so _wrong._

She missed home. She missed Mom and Dad.

Sometimes Bramble wished she would have stayed dead.

Tucking her knees under her chin, Bramble tried to make herself as small as possible in the large bath. She refused to acknowledge any sort of crying. It was just the water. Just the water.

Alone in more ways than one, Bramble continued to sit in silence. She softly ran fingers up and down her unshaved legs. Nobody cared about women having hairless skin outside of brothels.

The madam in Ashford took one look at Bramble and refused to take a starving, unwashed girl in. But Bramble motioned that she could dance. It was nothing special; a few modern-day Earth moves with a bit of basic jazz thrown in were scandalous in Westeros. “We’ll cover your face up,” the madam said once Bramble had been bathed and shaved. “The men won’t mind.”

They didn’t. In fact, the mysterious veil covering most of her face was highly exotic. Put together with the dancing, the men scrambled to touch her, to be inside her. Bramble had sex twice before coming to Westeros. In Ashford she eventually lost count.

The other women were kind. They took care of Bramble, who was on the younger side of girls in the brothel. Her hair, as dark and thick as it was, fascinated them. They had their hands on it whenever they got the chance. And they taught her the tricks of the trade and gave her herbs to decrease the chances of getting viruses or pregnant. The women wanted to know where she came from. Volantis? Mereen? Myr? Dorne? Because Bramble wasn’t white like the rest of them. She got away with not telling them because of her muteness, but by the time Bramble was sold to another brothel in King’s Landing the women all agreed she was undoubtedly Dothraki. It was a good laugh all around.

Bramble didn’t end up in Petyr Baelish’s brothel, thankfully. It was another establishment between the Street of Steel quarter and Cobbler’s Square. Much higher-end than the brothel in Ashford. Soldiers from the west barracks and noblemen getting their arms and armor repaired were the most frequent clients. Bramble attracted a lot more business with her shitty dancing. Only they didn’t know it was shitty. She got paid more, but she got beat more too. The madam in Ashford ran a stricter place than the one in King’s Landing. The men got away with everything short of murder. That’s how Bramble got her broken nose.

The women weren’t as kind to her as they were in Ashford. It was a more competitive business, Bramble supposed. She managed to survive there for a year without any problems. Then the shadows returned to stalk her. Their presence put her so on edge that when one of the women was getting abused by a couple soldiers, Bramble snapped. It wasn’t her first snap in Westeros. Wasn’t going to be her last. She nearly choked one out before the other soldier bashed her square in the nose.

Bramble was kicked out of the brothel that night. With her earnings she bought passage to Pentos, then fled up to Braavos, then back across to Gulltown. That’s when she decided to disguise herself as a boy. Shortly after in her meaningless wanderings, Bramble came upon a small farm run by a happy family. There she worked. No sex, no beatings, no dancing. Just picking weeds and hauling straw and tending to the crops.

But the family was killed by Lannisters, and Bramble snapped again. That snap lasted for a long time.

She stretched out in the bath and rested her head against the stone. The shadows. When were they going to come for her? Bramble was surprised she hadn’t seen one dashing behind one of the library shelves or underneath a staircase. Maybe because she was so close to the Night King and his army that they figured their work was done.

What a chilling notion. Bramble didn’t want to consider what the dead would do to her if she were to ever fall in their clutches.

_Or maybe you already are._

The invasive thought was the last straw. Bramble grit her teeth and got out of the warm water, quickly patting herself dry with a towel and putting on the new clothes. The underwear and trousers fit about the same as the last ones, but the tunic and vest were a little smaller. Bramble wasn’t hiding any breasts, anymore. In fact, she went without any sort of ache-inducing binding. It felt weird. Nice, but weird. There wasn’t much there to begin with, but at least there was _something._ The last time they were free Bramble danced in silks and worked in between sheets.

Hair still damp and wavy, Bramble made her way out of the baths. Jon had appointed her a room since she was now “officially” a woman. It was next to Shireen’s, fortunately, which gave her some comfort. There weren’t any Baratheon soldiers to post outside her room, and now that her father’s army had been demolished the men no longer had to fear any severe punishment. Bramble knew what many of the Crows were capable of when it came to hurting little girls.

She’d burn a hole in their heads before they laid a finger on Shireen.

Somebody was already in Bramble’s small chambers when she entered. Jon sat by the fireplace, head bowed and eyes closed. He didn’t stir at her entrance. Poor guy. He couldn’t even rest from his duties after coming back from the dead.

Bramble took off her boots and walked over to the nightstand. There she poured a cup of water and, once it was full, brought it over to Jon. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He immediately jerked awake, making a startled noise.

“Here,” Bramble said, offering Jon the cup. Once he reoriented himself, he took it with a muttered thanks. She sat down in another chair and stretched out her legs. Jon suddenly chuckled.

“I can’t believe how daft I was,” he said without glancing at her. “I can’t believe how daft we all were. The more I look at you, the more I realize how much of a girl you are.”

Bramble smiled, happy to see Jon laugh a little. “Yeah. Tormund got it right off the bat. So did Melisandre. I think Maester Aemon might have known, too. But it would have only been a matter of time before Pyp or someone said something.”

“Aye, that’s true.” Jon took another drink. This time he did glance at her. “You’re still not cold?”

“Nah. Got the fire now.” Bramble patted her thinly-layered chest. “It keeps me warm.”

Jon licked his lips, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. “Bramb, you—you knew this was going to happen? All of it?”

She sighed. The light conversation had to be short-lived, apparently. “Oh, Jon.” Bramble twisted her finger around a strand of hair. The women at the brothel would have been sad to see most of it gone. “Yeah. In a sense.”

“So you—”

“Let me finish.” Jon, though surprised, motioned for her to continue. It was the most decency she’d been shown by a Crow these past few days. “Most things aren’t certain. You have to know that. And the things that _are_ certain are that way for a reason. Your death was one of those certain, have-to-happen things. I couldn’t stand in its way.” Bramble’s voice grew soft and she cast her eyes down. “Believe me.” Olly hanging dead on a rope flashed unwantedly through her mind. “I wish I could have.”

The low, crackling fire danced in the silence, casting shadows across Jon’s solemn face. “Do you know what it’s like to die?” he suddenly asked.

Bramble blinked. She needed to tread lightly, but she wasn’t going to lie to Jon. Besides, a part of her wanted to tell him, to _share_ the gruesome experience with someone else.

“Yeah. I do.” For a confession of such magnitude, the chambers stayed void of tension or shock. The air itself was too tired from the day’s ordeals.

“How did it happen?”

Bramble shifted uncomfortably as the memories came back. “I drowned. But then suddenly I was alive and on the shores of Dorne.”

“Where were you sailing?”

Time to get twisty with the words. Bramble gave a slow shake of her head. “If I was going anywhere in particular, I don’t remember. My life in Westeros started the moment I woke up.”

Jon’s brows furrowed. “How long ago was that?”

“Three years.”

“And you…had these powers when you awoke?”

“Yeah. I’m still figuring it all out.” Bramble stood up, took her vest off, and pushed up the sleeves of her tunic, already too hot. “I think the magic up here started something. I could see death and other strange things beforehand. I was already strong, too. But up here I became a lot stronger, and then there was that vision between Mag Mar and me and—well, you saw what I did at Hardhome. The wight magic made for a catalyst.” She poured herself a cup of water and took a drink. Wiping excess droplets off her mouth, Bramble informed, “I found out I could run faster than humans can. Kept up with Davos’ horse on our way to save Shireen. The horse gave out before me, actually. I went without sleep or food for a long time. I also conjured fire at my own will when Baratheon soldiers were chasing Shireen and me.” Bramble took another, longer drink, waiting for Jon to let the information sink in.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bramble sat back down and was about to let the silence linger on, but instead went, “Mm. I almost forgot. I stuck my hand in a fire and didn’t get burned.”

That caused Jon to run a hand down his face and groan. “Bramb,” he muttered, though not unkindly, “what _are_ you?”

She breathed a laugh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You put a hole in my wall, too.” Jon looked at her again. “Did you have to do it?” There was life in his eyes and the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

Bramble scowled in a joking way. “Everybody was being dumb shits. I got mad. I punch things when I get mad. Just be glad I didn’t put a hole in someone.”

Jon’s smile slipped again too quickly. This world liked to steal happiness before it ever fully formed, she found. “Bramb, about Olly…”

Stealing happiness, indeed.

Bramble shook her head. The heaviness in her chest returned, and the ache in her throat felt too familiar. On-the-verge-of-tears familiar. “No. No, there’s nothing to be said.”

“But—”

“Jon.”

The two stared at each other, too emotional to continue, to talk about _him._ Olly. Their boy.

After a long silence, Jon just whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Bramble drained the rest of her cup to soothe the ache and blink away tears. When there was nothing left to drink, she lowered the cup and said, “I’m sorry, too.” Sorry for not trying harder, sorry for letting everything happen, sorry for what was to come, and sorry for the loss they were about to bear.

If Bramble went and saw Olly before the execution, she knew she’d try to break him out. Then she’d go against Jon and the Night’s Watch again, and this time there’d be no coming back. So she stayed in her room, sitting in agony. Jon retired to his own quarters to probably do the same.

Is this what true betrayal felt like? Is this how much it hurt? A pain so deep it lanced through bones, through muscles, through the soul and then back out again. And could Bramble really do nothing? Or was this how things were meant to be?

She didn’t know. Nothing felt like the right thing to do. That was the worst of it all.

Stupid boy. Stupid boy. Why didn’t he listen to her?

Bramble curled up on her side and asked herself the question over and over again until she drifted off into a bitter sleep.

-

A dark sky released calm flakes of snow into Castle Black. Melisandre stood alone on the castle’s open hall, dark red dress rippling in the breeze. Shireen watched from a staircase landing on the eastern side, Davos by her side and Balerion in her arms. Either she had found him or he found her. It made Bramble glad.

But that was the only thing she was glad for.

Bramble stood beside Tormund and the other wildings present. She couldn’t look at the sight before them in the courtyard. So she examined her black shoes, the snow collecting onto the frozen ground, and her hands the same color as her mother’s. And she tried not to feel.

Tried, but couldn’t succeed.

Jon moved past them, the Lord Commander’s black cloak particularly heavy on his shoulders. Bramble followed him, and eventually she was forced to look at where he was going.

The steps creaked under Jon’s weight in the ominous silence. The gallows welcomed him, displaying the three men and one boy balanced on a raised plank of wood. Ropes were tied around their necks.

Bramble couldn’t hear the words spoken between them and Jon from her distance. She didn’t care to. All she saw was Olly. Olly, who looked at Jon with hatred and disgust and fear. Bramble doubted she could keep it together if she saw the expression on Jon’s own face.

He unsheathed Longclaw and raised it above the execution rope. Bramble clenched her fists and furiously blinked away tears. Death lay ready at their feet.

_Do something._

_Fucking do something!_

Too late.

Longclaw swung down on the rope. Olly’s eyes shot to Bramble in the exact moment, full of terror and resolution. She swore she was screaming at the top of her lungs, but her mouth remained shut and silent.

And then he and the traitors hung in the cold gray light of the North.

Jon turned away and, after a brief exchange with Edd, took off the Lord Commander’s cloak and handed it to him. He strode back down the stairs and through the crowd. In the vices of agony and anguish, Bramble heard him say, “My watch has ended.”

She stood there, letting the moments pass by. It was already over. For the first time in a long time, Bramble felt…cold.

And then she was walking to the gate. Nobody tried to stop her. Nobody dared. Bramble had to _get away._ Get away from Olly’s corpse, from the images that plagued her mind of a grinning boy who got back up as many times as he got knocked down. A boy who turned red at being teased but couldn’t quite yet come up with his own retorts. A boy who followed Jon around, who followed Bramble around, who—who—

Who was another one lost despite Bramble standing only a few feet from him.

She made it to the tree line before everything broke. Bramble let out a ragged sob and sunk against the trunk of an old pine. Indescribable grief burned through her more fiercely than any fire ever could. Her uncontrollable, unstoppable cries sounded foreign in her ears. Everything hurt. Even the tears relentlessly running down her cheeks stung. Blinded by pain and despair, Bramble lashed out at the tree trunk with a scream. Wood splintered and cracked in the otherwise quiet forest. But it made no difference.

Bramble doubled over, clutching her stomach and feeling the snow seep through.

_You should have done something. You’re a failure. You failed Olly, you failed the wildlings, you failed Hammon and Jysel and Reesa and Jak. You failed your parents in every possible way. Failed. Failed. Failed._

How could Bramble feel this much and live? She didn’t want to live with this. Live _like_ this.

_Jumping off the Wall really would have been the better alternative._

A hand placed itself on Bramble’s shoulder. She didn’t have the energy or care to see who it was. She just wanted to die.

“Bramb.”

Grenn’s voice only made things worse. She wanted to shout at him, to make him go away and leave her to die of heartbreak. But Bramble found herself suddenly clinging onto him, burying her face into the familiar smell of leather and fur. He wrapped his arms around her and tucked his head into the crook of her neck. Bramble couldn’t stop crying, her sobs muffled by his chest. They were both on the ground, holding each other with everything they had while the old trees watched in their looming quiet.

In the midst of all the overwhelming darkness that threatened to drown Bramble, being in Grenn’s arms kept her head above the water.

And she continued to breathe.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'(


	24. Chapter 24

Bramble sat with Pyp in the kitchen, chopping carrots for the usual stew. Though things had returned to an uneasy calm at Castle Black, she decided to stay out-of-sight. Many of the men still wanted to see her punished, but with the strange turn of events it seemed that punishment was delayed indefinitely.

Pyp had gotten over everything when Jon came back to life. With Olly dead and Edd the new Lord Commander, they all silently moved past things that seemed unimportant, now.

The kitchens provided refuge from the cold winter and unforgiving memories. Bramble’s sleeves were rolled up past her elbows while she cut. Pyp stripped a roasted rabbits of its meat and tossed them into the giant, bubbling pot.

Bramble had started the fire that sat under the pot. Pyp rather forced her to try it out (“You can make fire, yeah? Takes me five minutes just to get a light. It’ll take you, what, three seconds?”). Just a little rub of her fingers next to the kindling and…poof. The fire wanted to ignite the entire room, but Bramble kept it contained. Pyp stared wide-eyed at the feat before beaming two moments later. Not like the smile Melisandre had given when she escaped with Shireen, but an actual, amazed grin. Bramble tried not to let the pride seep too far into her heart; the grief was still too fresh for her to allow anything else get in its way.

But chopping vegetables provided a numbing rhythm. The kitchen didn’t smell like muck and horse and men; it smelled like a faraway semblance of home. Pyp whistled a tune Bramble heard a lot in Ashford. The men visiting the brothel liked to sing it a lot before or after their festivities. She smiled a little to herself and, when she moved on to the potatoes, quietly sang what lyrics she remembered.

Pyp stopped whistling and glanced at her. “You know that tune? Only the people near the Cockleswhent sing it.”

“I lived in Ashford for a time,” Bramble replied quietly. She peeled the potatoes the way her mother taught her how.

“Really? What’d you do there?”

She paused in her peeling, ready to honestly reply that she fucked men for money, but the door opened and Shireen walked in. Balerion was tucked in her arms, as usual, his eyes half-closed and comfortable. Her hair was washed and undone. “Hello, princess,” Bramble greeted, sitting upright.

“Hello,” Shireen replied, but her voice was tight with distress and she didn’t smile.

Bramble frowned. “What’s the matter?”

Shireen set Balerion down. “He needs to be fed,” she said to Pyp, who wordlessly dipped his head and began to prepare a bowl for the cat. She was still a princess, after all.

Bramble set the potato peeler aside and beckoned Shireen to come and sit by her. Visibly distraught, she sat down in a chair and ashamedly said, “I can’t do my hair.” When Bramble only blinked, Shireen hung her head and looked down at the leather cords clutched in her hands. “There’s…there’s always been someone to do it for me. But now—” Shireen pulled back and sniffed. “It’s silly, I know. But I feel stupid for being so helpless about something so trivial.”

Wiping her hands on her trousers, Bramble motioned for Shireen to turn her chair around. “I can do it for you,” she said.

“Oh, no, please—”

Bramble gave Shireen a look. “I’m going to do it. And later, I’ll show you how to do it yourself.”

She finally smiled. “Alright. Thank you.”

Shireen gave Bramble the cords and turned her chair away. Bramble stood and ran her fingers through the princess’ brushed locks. “I used to have hair this long,” Bramble informed as she started to pull Shireen’s hair back, weaving strands between one another.

“Really? Why’d you cut it?”

“Boys don’t have long hair,” Bramble responded. “But I’d like to have it long again someday.”

“I can’t imagine you with long hair,” Shireen said, and she could hear the smile in her voice. Bramble continued to braid, but she tugged a little harder on a strand. “Ow!”

Pyp lightly laughed as he tended the stew.

“It’s true,” said Bramble. “It was down to my back at one point. I could weave it with ribbons and everything.”

“Hm. Well, I’d like to see it long again, too. Then I can braid it when I know how. And we’d have matching ribbons, as well as one for Balerion. He needs a ribbon.”

Bramble glanced at the cat noisily eating scraps of food nearby. She smirked. “He does indeed.”

There was a small silence as Bramble finished up Shireen’s hair. Then the princess said, “Will you teach me how to use a sword?”

“Uh, sure?” Bramble should have said that sword fighting was no place for a girl, but she too was a girl, and she wanted Shireen to know how to protect herself. Also, swinging swords was actually pretty cool. “You’re going to need proper clothes for it, though. And have your hair pulled back. Like this.” Bramble bound the hair and secured it. Shireen patted her scalp and felt the French braid. It was only half-done; Bramble supposed she still wanted some of it down. It wasn’t the princess’ usual style, but it would suffice. And besides, it probably wouldn’t hurt if Shireen had something new.

“Thank you, Bramble. I like it.” She turned and called, “Do you like it, Pyp?”

He smiled and nodded once. “Yes, my lady.”

“Do you want to help peel potatoes?” Bramble suddenly asked. She liked keeping Shireen in her sight. And the princess had already lived a lonely enough life; she could use some social interaction.

“You’ll have to teach me to use a peeler,” Shireen laughed. “I’ve never touched one in my life.”

“Then let this be a precursor to sword fighting.”

-

Night fell, and Bramble found she could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Olly. She saw him hanging on that rope, blue in the face and neck at an odd angle.

She dug her hands in the fireplace for a while, acting like a child who discovered something new. But the flames couldn’t hold interest. Not when Bramble’s mind was burdened like it was. After spending some time walking about the room, she gave up trying to get any rest and walked outside.

Maybe she’d go to the wildling camp. Hang out with them. They liked her there, didn’t they? Or they were just as weirded out by her. Maybe she’d bother Davos. But that old man needed his sleep. Jon was probably still up, trying to keep the nightmares at bay. He and Bramble made for poor company together, though, with the way the things were. She’d leave him alone.

There was always Melisandre to visit. Or Bramble could disembowel herself and it’d be just as pleasant.

Or…Grenn.

No. That’d be stupid. She didn’t even know if he was on the Wall or asleep; the Night’s Watch routinely duties escaped her knowledge, now. They wouldn’t go hunting anymore, or patrol the Wall, or train together. Soon she’d leave Castle Black entirely. At least, that’s where things were probably heading. So why did she get even more sad when she thought about leaving Grenn behind?

_It’s because you like him, dumbass._

Like? Like? A crush? _Here?_

That hug two days ago was out of grief, out of comfort and consolation. Nothing more. And besides, Bramble couldn’t afford to even _think_ about any semblance of happiness. Not when this world liked to rip it all away.

Bramble stomped off to the library. At this hour nobody should be in there, now that Sam was gone. Oh, Sam. She missed his calming presence. She missed Gilly and the baby and old Maester Aemon, too. But she’d never see Aemon again, and she might not ever see that strange little family either.

Since when did she start to _miss_ people from Westeros? In all her years here, Bramble had missed only four people who were now dead. Other than that, she never allowed any roots to take place.

_Well. You have roots now._

That meant all the more pain, then.

Bramble spent the rest of the night reading by candlelight. She learned unnecessary information about the former lord commanders of the Watch and what medicines to use for common ailments. There were some mathematic books as well, but Bramble found she knew all of the content. Dad would be happy about that. Even after all the hell she had been through, she still knew trigonometry.

The sun began to peek through the library’s dirty windows as Bramble skimmed through a book on native plants and animals in the North and past the Wall. She frowned. Had it really been that long? She feared that the longer she stayed awake, the harder the crash would be. That’s what happened last time. The _only_ time, frustratingly enough. There still weren’t enough instances of exercising her powers to make definite conclusions. Just like statistics. And Bramble _hated_ statistics.

But she’d roll with the whole not-being-tired thing for now. Besides, it was the perfect time to start training.

Davos was leaving his room when Bramble came down the dimly-lit hall. He frowned at her and immediately asked, “Aren’t you cold?” Then a second later said, “Wait. No. Of course you’re not.” He carried on with the conversation while Bramble stood there listening to him “You know, the Lady Melisandre doesn’t feel the cold, either. Maybe the two of you can have a chat about it.”

“I don’t want to have any sort of chat with that woman,” Bramble said. Davos firmly nodded in agreement.

“Aye. But she thinks Jon is who Stannis was supposed to be. I have the dreadful feeling that she’ll be sticking around for a while yet.” He made an _oh well_ face and shrugged. “So. Where are you coming back from at this hour?”

“The library. I couldn’t sleep.” Bramble crossed her arms. “And you? Where are you off to?”

“And old body like this doesn’t let me rest for too long,” Davos smirked under his well-trimmed mustache. “I was going to check on Lord—Jon. The lad’s going to need some help. Might as well be of use.”

Bramble allowed a small smile to touch the corner of her mouth. “That he will. Thank you for being there.”

Unable to come up with a sarcastic response, Davos grunted and nodded at Shireen’s door. “The princess told me you were going to teach her how to use a sword.”

“I’m going to try.”

He chuckled. “She’s pretty excited about it. And I’m glad that she’s going to learn how to defend herself.” Davos’ face grew serious again. “The world’s getting darker with each day. Even little girls need to know how to kill a man to protect themselves.”

“Or a woman.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Then Davos gravely said, “Aye, even women. The dead, too.”

“Yeah, nearly forgot about those.” The dryness in Bramble’s voice made Davos smile. Bramble tried not to think of her dad.

“Well. Best get to waking her up. Maybe I’ll get to see some of the training before it ends.”

Davos left and Bramble knocked on Shireen’s door before entering. The princess lay asleep on her bed, fur blankets piled high on top of her. The fireplace glowed with dying embers. The books she had carried with her sat on the small table, but there was really nothing else that attested to who Shireen was. Bramble’s heart ached. The princess was adrift, now, like so many of them. No place to go, no place to return. In a matter of minutes, Shireen had abandoned everything she knew.

And yet she was still so brave.

Bramble hoped that one day she could have the heart of Shireen Baratheon.

She gently shook the princess and said, “Shireen. Wake up. It’s time to train.”

The princess made a noise and opened her eyes, blinking a few times before she turned and stared up at Bramble. “It’s so early,” she groaned. Beside her, an orange head popped out from under the covers. Balerion yawned widely and looked at Bramble as well, silently voicing the princess’ sentiments. What a spoiled cat.

“It is. I’m sorry. But we need to practice before the rest of the men come out.”

With her eyes closed, Shireen nodded and flung off the blankets. Bramble placed a few logs in the fireplace and coaxed the flames out of the embers. She didn’t really know _how_ she did it. Like most of these things, it just happened.

Once Shireen got dressed for the outdoors, Bramble did her hair without asking. Another braid, this one tighter so it wouldn’t fall out. Balerion followed them out the door and into the frigid courtyard. The training sword Bramble grabbed for the two of them looked big in Shireen’s hands, but she was already awake and alert and ready to learn. For safe measures, Bramble put her in training armor. It was a little heavy, but she’d be safer with it on.

“Alright,” Bramble said in the early morning air. “We’re going to practice holding the sword. See how I’m gripping it? Yeah, just like that…”

There was a glow in Shireen’s eyes, a drive, a fire. Shireen wasn’t a loud person, or a greedy one. But if she wanted something—like knowing how to fight with a sword—she was going to get it.

They practiced until the courtyard started to stir with life. It’d already been a couple hours, and Shireen’s brow glistened with a sheen of sweat. Bramble needed to get her some more clothes. She had just that one dress and a pair of boots not suited for a tough kind of lifestyle.

If any of what Shireen wore was a problem, she didn’t show it. The princess was tenacious and constant, never faltering even when she got smacked by the training sword in the arm or on the leg. Bramble didn’t plan on any swordplay for their first lesson, but Shireen stubbornly insisted. She didn’t even care when Tormund came to watch and Davos observed from one of the walkways.

Snow fell in heavy clumps as Bramble and Shireen put the training armor and swords away. Tormund walked up to talk to them with that usual, shit-eating smirk on his face. “Not a bad practice, Little Crow,” he said to Bramble.

She replied with a small scowl, “I’m guessing you have something else to say about it.”

Tormund’s smirk grew. “Princess could use some hand-to-hand training. Swords are only good protection about half the time. Better get her a dagger, too.”

Bramble raised her eyebrows. “Why are you so interested?”

He shrugged his thick shoulders. “Taught my daughters how to fight. One more girl that knows how to fight means one more dead man who makes the mistake of touching her.”

That made her smile. “Yeah, alright, I’ll make sure she know how to swing a punch and break bones.” Bramble glanced at Shireen, who wandered off out-of-earshot to pick up Balerion. She saw Bramble staring and offered a sweet smile in return. Turning back to Tormund, Bramble said, “I’d like to meet your daughters. They—”

The blast of a single horn ended the conversation. “Riders at the gate!” one of the brothers called from atop the ramparts. Bramble frowned. Who in their right mind would possibly want to come to Castle Black?

Grenn, whose presence Bramble had pointedly ignored when he first came into the courtyard, strode up the stairs and to the top of the battlements. Once he saw whoever waited on the other side did he yell, “Open the gate!”

It struck Bramble a second before the gates opened just who had arrived.

Three people, haggard and cold, guided their mounts into the castle courtyard. The leader was a giant blonde woman, donned in black armor and with a sheathed sword at her side. A younger man in squire’s garb followed on her right, and on the left…

On the left was Sansa Stark.

Deep auburn hair stood out against the pale backdrop of winter. Vivid blue eyes cautiously roamed around the courtyard for enemies. They passed over Bramble for a second. She didn’t need to have her former Sight ability to know that Sansa bore deep wounds time might not heal. Though all three of them were covered in grime, Sansa looked the most bedraggled and worn.

Shireen came back to Bramble’s side, cradling Balerion in one arm. The other had linked with hers. They watched as the newcomers dismounted. The blonde woman stayed close to the daughter she swore to protect. “Who is it?” Shireen whispered, but it sounded like a shout in the silent courtyard.

Sansa’s eyes went up to the staircase above them and stayed there. Bramble heart footsteps, and she turned her head to watch Jon slowly walk down. His dark gaze, filled with emotions that made Bramble both happy and sad, fixed on his half-sister.

As if in a trance, Jon continued to approach Sansa, who stood there in the same sort of disbelief. He finally stopped a few feet away, like the both of them were afraid that this moment couldn’t be real. Bramble found herself holding her breath.

And then they were hugging, Jon lifting Sansa off her feet, Sansa burying her face into Jon’s shoulder. The two siblings clung to each other with everything they had.

But really, all they had now was each other.

Bramble finally answered Shireen. “That’s Sansa Stark,” she muttered to the princess, whose eye went wide at the name. Tugging on her mousy-haired braid, Bramble said, “Best go back to your room, Shireen. I’ll get you a bath later.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Bramble’s look stopped her from saying anything. With a sigh, Shireen left with her round orange cat. “That,” Tormund breathed, drawing her attention back to him, “is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Bramble knew he was talking about Brienne. Though the woman wasn’t considered beautiful by conventional standards, the strength and calm she exuded was a thing to behold. Brienne held herself with such conviction in that black armor even Bramble had a hard time looking away.

Jon and Sansa let go of each other. He was actually _smiling._ It crinkled his eyes and everything. Sansa smiled too, but there was still a sadness, a hollowness to it. Bramble’s heart ached for her, and she was reminded that Westeros and its people could have been far crueler to her than it had been.

Or maybe it still had, and Bramble just got used to the horror it inflicted.

“Bramb,” Jon called, beckoning her over. She and Tormund exchanged a final glance before she walked to the siblings.

With a hand on her shoulder, Jon said, “This is my sister, Sansa Stark. Could you see to it that she and her companions get settled into a room in the eastern wing? Near mine.” Jon asked for more, but he did not say it.

Bramble understood nonetheless. “Of course,” she said. Sansa, who first regarded her with suspicion, softened her expression with slight surprise when it became apparent that Bramble was, indeed, a girl.

She wasn’t one of the stewards. But neither was she a ranger, anymore. So what was she? Bramble didn’t know, and Jon probably didn’t know yet, either. So she obliged to Jon’s request and saw that Podrick, Brienne, and Sansa were settled into their rooms. Pyp and another steward, Eran, came to assist, bringing food and buckets of hot water for baths. Guest rooms always had their own baths. But Bramble stayed with Sansa, who walked and looked about the room in a haze. She personally filled the bath up and didn’t let Pyp or Eran into the room.

“Is she really Jon’s sister?” Pyp whispered to her as she took a tray of warm bread, cheese, and wine from him. “That’s Sansa Stark?”

“It is.”

“What’s she going to do here?”

Bramble gave Pyp a deadpan stare. “Rest. Eat. Breathe. If you just escaped from your captors, what would you do?”

He didn’t answer quickly enough, so Bramble sighed and went on. “Go to Maester Aemon’s medicinal room. Get me some kingscopper ointment and peppermint.” After a pause, Bramble added solemnly, “And see if he has any tansy, wormwood, and pennyroyal.”

Pyp knew exactly what Bramble was talking about. Maester Aemon probably didn’t have any moontea in stock, but he should have kept the ingredients for it. The pregnancy-terminating tea was a precaution, but Bramble knew it was better than to just cross her fingers and hope for the best. She saw the way reality deviated from the fantasy, for better or worse.

“I’ll bring some hot water and honey for a tea,” Pyp murmured. Bramble lightly punched his chest and went into Sansa’s room, closing the door soundly behind her.

The Stark sat on her bed, staring vacantly at the old floorboards. “Here’s some food, my lady,” Bramble spoke quietly, setting the tray on a small table. Sansa barely acknowledged her.

In the silence, Bramble stoked the fire and made sure the water was hot (even if that meant sneakily heating it up with highly untested fire abilities), and laid out towels and soap and hair wash. Pyp knocked on the door, returning with another tray of the herbs Bramble requested and a cup of hot water and honey. She thanked him and withdrew into the room again.

“I’ll help you out of that dress,” Bramble said. Her voice sounded too loud, but she continued. “You’ll probably want to have a nice bath.”

“I can help myself, thank you,” Sansa replied, finally tearing herself away from disassociation. “You may leave.”

Bramble’s eyebrows only steepled together. “I’m not going to hurt you. And your dress looks like its frozen on. Even if you can get out of it, you probably don’t want to get back into it while it’s still damp and dirty. I’ll see that it’s washed and dried, and you’ll have other clean clothes to get back into.” When Sansa only responded with more silence, Bramble frowned and said, “Hey. You’re safe here.”

Her jaded blue eyes bore into Bramble. “I’m not safe anywhere.”

“Well,” Bramble sighed, “that’s probably true. But right now, in this room, you’re safe with me. I promise.”

“And why do you even want to help me.” Sansa spoke flatly, like she made a remark rather than asked a question.

 _Why? Because you’re Sansa Stark._ The _Sansa Stark. Books and television shows are based around you. You’re a famous fictional name._

Bramble stared evenly back. “Because you’re Jon’s sister, and he wanted me personally to see that you were taken care of.” She ran her fingers through her hair and let out a breath.  “And, honestly, you look like you’ve been through hell.”

Sansa finally showed some emotion. The corner of her mouth barely flicked up. She stood and, with a sigh, said, “Alright. You can stay. Help me out of this dress.”

Bramble did. When the cloak came off, she unfastened the back of Sansa’s dirty dress and let her step out of it. Sansa wore an equally dirty slip underneath, but Bramble could still see the bruises, the bitemarks, the gouges everywhere. Though they were fading, the most vicious ones were between her legs and on her breasts. A few scars had even formed, serving as permanent reminders to something Sansa could never forget.

Bramble’s stomach roiled with hot anger. The flames, spurred by her emotions, sprung to life. She had to force them down, lest something catch on fire.

Sansa let out a relaxed sigh as she sank deeper into the tub. Bramble gave her soap and a sponge and gently undid her hair while she scrubbed herself of grime. “So,” Sansa said lowly, “how did you happen to come to Castle Black?”

“That, my lady, is a very long story,” Bramble said with a small smile. She poured a pitcher of bathwater over Sansa’s tangled auburn hair and let it soak. “Very long.”

They sat in silence for a short while. Bramble took the liberty of washing Sansa’s hair. When she was done, she left to search for clothes—but ran into Jon, who waited outside the hall.

“How is she?” he asked, unable to hide his worry.

Bramble adjusted Sansa’s dress draped over an arm. “Bad. She’s been repeatedly raped and beaten by a fucking lunatic, Jon. Tell me how you’d be if you fled one captor just to be handed to other captors. Worse captors.”

Jon looked sick, so Bramble clasped his shoulder and said, “Just be grateful that she’s alive. I think you have Lady Brienne and Podrick to thank for that. Now, where can I find decent clothes for her?”

“In storage. I’ll help you.” Jon started to walk, but then stopped and looked at Bramble with an odd expression.

“What?”

“Did…did you see this coming? Sansa being here?”

“No.”

It was an impulsive lie. Bramble wasn’t sure why she did it. Maybe because she didn’t want to tell Jon that yes, she technically saw his sister coming back, but she deprived him of that hope just because she forgot about Sansa entirely. What a tool move.

Jon nodded, believing her. They continued to one of the storage rooms, where they found proper—albeit, old—underclothes for Sansa and a dress that was probably going to be big on her. Bramble also scrounged up a brush, socks, and hair pins. “Why are there even lady things here?” she had to ask.

“Lords and ladies used to visit the castle,” Jon explained. “The castle kept supplies on hand because nobles can be…”

“Terrible.”

“Yes. Their demands are expected to be met, even on the edge of civilization.” Jon smiled wryly at his comment, making Bramble smile. It was good to see him a little happy, especially in the aftermath of the nightmares they went through.

Sansa had fallen asleep when Bramble returned. She stepped as quietly as she could and laid the clothing on the bed. Then she reheated the tea water (a neat trick to have, so that was cool) and made moontea. She added all the honey Pyp gave to mask the bitterness of the herbs.

Eventually Sansa stirred when Bramble made one-too-many noises. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, rubbing a wet hand across her face. “I’m just…”

“Exhausted.” Bramble helped Sansa out of the tub and gave her a towel. “I’m sure you are.” She gestured to the clothes laid out on the bed. “I found some clothes for you. They probably won’t fit the best, but they’re dry and they’ll keep you warm.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said absently as she dried off.

“I…also got you some moontea,” Bramble added a little more softly. Sansa stopped wringing her hair out for a moment before continuing. Something passed over her face that was gone so quickly Bramble wasn’t sure it had been there at all.

“Thank you,” was all she eventually said.

Bramble helped Sansa into her new dress and gave her the tea to drink while she brushed out her hair. Though Bramble couldn’t make up for the thousands of atrocities Sansa had been victim to, she could at least help the poor woman out in small ways. “That jar over there is also kingscopper. If you hurt anywhere, put it on and it’ll dull the pain.”

“I will.”

“And…and if you start getting pains from the tea, have someone come and fetch me.”

“What is your name again?” Sansa asked. Bramble brushed out the last few strands of wet hair and set the brush aside.

“My name is Bramble.”

Sansa turned to look up at her. Her pale cheeks were cleaned of dirt and color had returned to her lips. “Thank you, Bramble. For all you’ve done.”

“It’s nothing, my lady.”

It really wasn’t. Bramble hadn’t thought twice about helping Sansa. There were no _what ifs_ or _will this change the course of everything_ thoughts in her mind. The usual “life or death” choices that hung over Bramble’s shoulders with every decision was, for once, blessedly absent. If anything, the only thing changed was that Sansa received a little more kindness in a cruel, cruel world.

When Bramble left and crossed the courtyard to Shireen’s bedroom with hefty buckets of water in each hand, she remembered something profound. Something that shouldn’t have been profound, but echoed in her ears and reminded her of a life before this.

In spite of all the grief, the pain, the sorrow, there was still kindness. And it could still come from Bramble. This world couldn’t kill it, the last world couldn’t kill it. The only one who could kill it was herself.

Stupid, really. Bramble hadn’t just barely realized the truth. She just…forgot it, after a while, when all the bad consumed the good and survival replaced living. A rediscovery. Miniscule in some ways, paramount in others.

Bramble could still grieve. There wasn’t any stopping it, nor the sadness and anger she too often felt. She didn’t doubt that she’d still be knocked to her knees by this place and what was to come. But the fire in Bramble’s chest grew warmer, and the courtyard suddenly didn’t seem so gray and dismal.

She spotted Grenn easily. He awkwardly paused when he caught her looking—or, rather, that she caught him looking at her first. Instead of ducking away, Grenn shifted the pile of chopped wood in his arms and haltingly dipped his head to her.

Who couldn’t help but smile back at such a sight?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody needs to be nice to Sansa


	25. Chapter 25

_Bramble sucked in a lungful of air, eyes going to the scoreboard on the wall. Despite the water plugging her ears, she heard cheers bouncing off the walls of the pool._

_Then she beamed and raised both fist in the air. Mom and Dad were the loudest in the stands, jumping on their feet and shouting Bramble’s name._

_She’d won first in backstroke at Ontario’s high school championships. Everything, everything in this moment was so_ real _and good and—_

_The water turned black and cold, and the cheers became petrified screams that lanced through Bramble’s heart. It felt like ice. A bony hand beneath the surface of the ocean grabbed her foot and dragged her down, down, down. She tried to fight back, tried to swim away, but the ice deadened her limbs and extinguished the fire._

_Then someone pulled her back up, through the ice and darkness, someone with brown eyes, and the fire **burned.**_

-

Bramble quickly put out the small fire she started on her bed, muttering, “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

It wasn’t that bad, leaving nothing more than a scorch mark on the fur blanket she didn’t use anyway. But it happened while she _slept._ That was a bad thing, right? That was a “dangerous superhero destined to destroy the world” kind of thing. If Bramble reacted with every nightmare…

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It’d be best to tell Jon, just in case a bad dream caused a fire to sweep through Castle Black.

The thought made Bramble uneasy. She didn’t even know the extent of her powers. How much could she burn?

How many could she kill?

Unfortunately, the question wasn’t just on her mind.

Bramble, having been invited to the private lunch with Jon and Sansa, devoured her food at the table. She seated herself between Jon and Tormund, and though her ugly eating habits mirrored Jon’s and Edd’s (Bramble was far hungrier these days), Tormund ate slowly, sensually, staring at poor Brienne of Tarth like it was foreplay.

Edd finally came up for air and noticed that the three seated across from them stared and picked at the bland, fatty food in front of them. “Sorry ‘bout the food,” he said. “It’s not what we’re known for.”

“That’s alright,” Sansa assured with a forced smile. “There are more important things.”

Bramble paused, getting a feeling. A spidey-sense. Something was about to happen, wasn’t it?

The door opened and a brother stepped inside. “A message for you, Lord Commander,” he said, holding out the scroll for Jon.

And Jon stared back at it. “I’m not the Lord Commander, anymore.” But, after a moment, he took it and excused the brother.

Bramble saw the Bolton sigil stamped into the scroll’s wax. She shook her head and downed the rest of her ale.

Jon read the contents out loud. They were all threats from Ramsay Bolton. He promised Jon’s death, Rickon’s death—and when he couldn’t read the rest, Sansa took it and finished. He explained all the explicit, gruesome ways he’d have her raped. By his men, by his hounds, by him and the mutilations that’d follow.

It made Bramble’s stomach turn and the fire roil. After several moments of heavy silence, Jon repeated the phrase they all feared. “Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

“His father’s dead,” Sansa flatly explained. “Ramsay killed him. And now he has Rickon.”

“We don’t know that—”

“Yes we do.”

“How many men does he have in his army?” Tormund lowly asked.

Sansa paused, pretending to consider the number. “I heard him say five thousand once when he was talking about Stannis’ attack.”

Jon turned to Tormund, but Bramble knew he longed to directly speak to her. “How many men do you have?”

“That could march and fight? Two thousand. The rest are children and old people.”

Bramble lowered her head and went to drink more ale, but was only reminded of its emptiness.

“You’re the son of the last true Warden of the North,” said Sansa, before Jon’s brown eyes would eventually find their way to Bramble. She made the mistake of glancing at Tormund, who had his own gaze fixed on her. He raised a slight, suggestive eyebrow. She scowled. “Northern families are loyal. They’ll fight for you if you ask.”

When Jon didn’t reply, Sansa reached for his hand across the table and held it tight. “A monster has taken our home and our brother.” For the first time since they met, Bramble heard fierceness in Sansa’s voice. An anger that had long built from years of injustice and the longing for vengeance. “We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both.”

Bramble watched Jon from the corner of her eye. She knew his single nod would happen, but to still see it—sitting right beside him, in a world that was far too real for her liking—added a weight to her stomach.

Then Jon looked at her. He didn’t have to even say anything. That _look_ asked the question more than his words ever could.

She let out a breath and reached for the pitcher of ale, pouring the rest of it into her mug. “You know I’m with you,” Bramble said sharply. “I can’t be here. Not anymore. But—”

“But you may make up for a thousand more men,” Tormund cut in. She ignored the curious looks from those seated on the other side of the table and focused on drinking her ale. “Who knows how much damage you could do?”

“That’s the thing.” Bramble drug a hand down the side of her face. “None of us _know_ how much I can do. What if it’s not even that much after all?”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Edd added. Bramble turned her glowering gaze to him. “What you’ve done so far is most likely only the beginning.”

“Bramb,” said Jon in that grave voice of his. “We need you. You’re strong, but Tormund’s right. You could turn the tide for us.”

“But what if I can’t? What if you put all your faith in me and I can’t even light a spark? Then everyone gets slaughtered and that’ll be it.” Bramble paused, exhaled, and continued in a softer voice, “If I can, I’m not sure I can handle killing so many by myself. It might break my brain.”

“Better a broken brain than a lost war, Little Crow.”

“I’m sorry, but what is all this?” Sansa questioned, her serious blue eyes flitting between the four of them.

“I—she can…” Jon, unable to come up with an adequate explanation, quickly gave up and again looked to Bramble. She scowled more deeply this time and ran fingers through her loose hair in frustration.

Then, when Bramble’s hand swept through, she held it in front of her and summoned the fire. It danced between her fingers, played on her palm, and utterly awed and entranced everyone at the table.

“So you _can_ control it,” Tormund exhaled rather proudly.

“At this level? Yeah.” Bramble took in a breath and called the fire back in. It was reluctant to go, and she had to grit her teeth to get it to recede. “It’s harder to extinguish. That worries me. The fire is very… _demanding._ It doesn’t like being told what to do.”

“Amazing,” Brienne uttered, absolutely taken away. Bramble tried smiling, but it didn’t quite work. Podrick remained silent and stunned.

“I…may have burned a bit of my bed after having a bad dream,” Bramble sighed, digging back into her food to avoid eye contact. “So it might not be all that amazing when I burn down an entire army in my sleep.”

Tormund blew a raspberry. “You won’t do that. Just save it for the Bolton army.”

Bramble made a frustrated noise as she ate the rest of the pork on her plate. “You shouldn’t just rely on one person, anyway,” Bramble said through a mouthful of food. “You still need to gather an army. Once you’ve got an army, once you’ve got more men, _then_ you can rely on my strength.” She added in a mumble, “Whatever that strength that is.”

“You stopped a giant in its tracks. That’s pretty strong right there,” Tormund said with his shit-eating grin. He was just _reveling_ in all this talk. The wildling wanted to see Bramble burn men and bash in skulls more than anyone.

“My point still stands.” Bramble looked to Jon, then to Sansa. “Find an army. We’ll go from there.”

“I already have a plan,” Tormund said, oblivious to what Bramble just said. “Mag Mar agreed to it, too. We’ll _launch_ you into the sky, Little Crow, and then—” He made an explosion sound, almost elbowing her in the face as he did so. “Right into the Bolton army. Burn the men to a crisp right then and there. It’ll be perfect.”

Bramble shook her head and lifted her mug to take a hefty swallow. “You’re an insane bastard, Tormund Giantsbane.”

-

Jon decided to leave in a week’s time. Word spread fast. Bramble tried not to think about leaving the place that’d become her home. Instead she continued to spar with Shireen in the morning and discuss war plans with Jon, Davos, Sansa, and the others in the afternoon. In the evening she was with Shireen again, hiding in the kitchens with Pyp and Grenn and trying to cling to these last few moments before it was all gone.

“Where’d you get these herbs?” Bramble asked Pyp, who was showing Shireen how to chop a rabbit up in the right way. Balerion tucked himself next to Bramble’s feet, curled up by a heat source as warm as the fire itself. “They’re fresh.”

“A few of the rangers found them on their hunt,” Pyp replied. “Recognized what they were and thought it’d be tasty in a stew.”

“It will.” Bramble brought the leaves close to her nose and inhaled their scent. She smiled fondly. “Mm. It smells like parsley.”

“What’s that?” Grenn asked.

“An herb my mother liked to use for her soups,” Bramble answered without thinking. She saw Grenn trying to chop them with a dull kitchen knife one-by-one and moved a little closer to help him. “Here. It’s better to just pluck the leaves off the stem. Like this, right?” She yanked off the little green leaves and collected them together in a pile. “Then you just chop them up when they’re bundled like that.”

“Thank you,” Grenn mumbled, a small smile on his face. Bramble felt a different kind of heat flush her ears. She picked her own leaves off and chopped them into fine bits.

“You had a mother, eh, Bramb?” Pyp suddenly said in the comfortable silence. Bramble glanced up at him, feeling everything harden inside her.

“Yeah. Everyone has a mother.” She took hers and Grenn’s herbs to the pot of stew and dumped them in.

“What was she like?” Shireen asked the question, not Pyp. If it’d had been Pyp she wouldn’t have answered. Bramble figured Shireen knew this, the sneaky girl.

“She was…kind.” Bramble resumed her place and sat down. Grenn abruptly followed, and Balerion practically crawled on top of her feet underneath the table. Her throat started to ache. “She and my father loved each other very much. And she taught me what she learned in the kitchen from her mother, and her mother before her.” Bramble longed for the day when she could make herself some lumpia again.

“Where was she from?” Grenn was the next one to ask a question, quietly, because they were walking into uncharted territory.

Bramble wanted to close off, to go back to one-worded responses. But for some reason she couldn’t.

“Far away, on a small island that doesn’t have a mark on the map.” Technically true, she supposed. Before anyone could ask another deeper, more personal question, she went on. “The food there is full of spices. It’s rich in flavor. Not like—” Bramble gestured to the stew boiling for dinner. “That. Sorry, Pyp.”

He nodded understandingly with a wry smile. “One of the dishes, adobo, is made when you marinate meat—either chicken, pork, beef, or fish—in a vinegar and garlic sauce, as well as with some other spices. Then you let it simmer for a while, and when it’s done you can pan fry it for some extra crispiness. You serve it in a stew, or over rice, or eat it just like it is.” Bramble found herself tilting her head back and smiling. “I can taste it now.”

“That sounds lovely,” Grenn said sincerely. She turned her head to him, smile fading.

“It was.” Bramble rubbed her nose, trying to stifle the continued ache in her throat. “But my parents are gone, now, and I’ll never see that island again.”

That ended the conversation. At least until Pyp couldn’t help but say, “At least I know why you have that funny accent, now. I’ve tried to imitate it, but—” He furrowed his brows and grated out a poor Canadian accent. _“I can’t seem to get it right.”_ Bramble let out a short, sudden laugh. It sounded too loud so she clapped a hand over her mouth, but Shireen and Grenn were laughing with her. Pyp joined in, too, and their laughter continued even after it stopped being funny.

Then Edd walked in, and their amusement cut short. He looked around the kitchen, frustration working his jaw. “Well? Don’t stop on account of me.”

“Hard day?” Shireen prompted. Edd bitterly chuckled.

“You could say that, princess. You could say that.” He let out a loud groan as he sat into a chair across from Bramble and Grenn.

“It’s not easy being the sudden Lord Commander, I take it?” Bramble picked Balerion up, earning a disgruntled grunt from the cat.

“No,” Edd sighed. “Especially when you thought you’d die before even coming close to the position.”

“Here. He’ll help.” Bramble offered Balerion over the table. Edd let out a small laugh and, after a moment, took Balerion and held him.

“He’s getting fat, isn’t he?” Edd commented as Balerion settled into his lap, loudly purring from the sudden attention Edd gave.

“He needs to be prepared for winter,” Shireen immediately combated. “The journey we’re going on isn’t going to be easy.”

Bramble and Edd exchanged solemn glances. She hadn’t told the princess, yet.

“Still,” Edd said after a moment, easing back into the conversation, “you’ll need to watch out. War cats need to be fit for battle.”

That earned a few laughs. Bramble let her heart ache as she smiled and joked.

She was going to miss this place.

And she was going to miss the big idiot who chose to sit next to her.

-

The library offered a quiet refuge for the nights when Bramble couldn’t sleep. After her fire-inducing dream, she had only slept another night before worrying too much about burning anything down. Now the library, without Sam or Maester Aemon to occupy it, remained largely unused. Shireen spent most of her time between the shelves during the day, but after the princess had gone to bed, the library became Bramble’s.

Currently she was on a search for some ancient text that might say the whole showing-up-in-a-fictional-world wasn’t unheard of, before. So far…nothing more than references saying that the world was a savage place before the Faith of the Seven came to Westeros. Or that the chances of there being life among the stars was impossible, according to the dusty old maesters. This world was the only world, made that way by the Seven.

That made Bramble chuckle.

The pursuit was far-fetched, of course. She just figured that in an old library like this, stranger events could have been recorded. Between the White Walkers, the Children, and the magic, maybe a poor person like her ended up somewhere in there.

Bramble hummed the _Star Wars_ theme song as she flipped through pages. The small fire in the library twisted pleasingly to the tune, which made her wonder if she could create dumb visions in the flames to freak people out.

The thought was interrupted by the woman who actually saw visions in the flames. As always, Bramble sensed her presence before she walked into the library. “A strange tune,” Melisandre said, her voice like silk.

“What the fuck do you want?” Bramble asked, lowering her eyes back down to the book at the table.

Much to her disdain, Melisandre seated herself across from Bramble. She smiled wisely, as if she hadn’t made any terrible mistakes in the first place. “You are a very strange and curious creature, Bramble. I have a few questions.”

“You can fuck the right off, that’s what you can do. Or it might be tilly time.”

“So quick to act in violence. Has it always been that way, or do the fires within make it so?”

 _“You_ make it so.” Bramble lifted her gaze again to look at the priestess. “I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I don’t like women who sacrifice innocent people.”

“I only do what the Lord of Light commands.”

Bramble sneered. “But this time around, it wasn’t what he commanded, was it? Burning so many people for Stannis, only to realize that you were wrong this whole time.” Melisandre’s smile disappeared. Her eyes turned cold like the howling wind outside. “Who did you sacrifice instead of Shireen?”

The question had been brewing in Bramble for a long time. Melisandre’s icy disposition melted a little. After a few silent moments, she finally answered. “Lady Baratheon and five soldiers.”

Bramble made a disgusted noise. “You’re fucking sick. Your god is sick.”

“Lady Baratheon gave herself willingly—”

“And the soldiers? Did they? Though, I suppose their deaths came sooner rather than later, seeing as Stannis’ victory was only a figment of your imagination.”

“Enough.”

The room darkened, and the gem set in the center of Melisandre’s neck faintly began to glow. The fire turned inward like it was cringing away from the touches of darkness. Bramble scowled and stood, chair scraping against the floor. “You think you can intimidate me? I’ll fucking rip that necklace from your throat. Then everyone will see what you really look like.”

She flexed her hand towards the fireplace, which roared back to life and chased the darkness away. Melisandre stood upright as well, the whites of her eyes reflecting in the firelight. “You are not of this place,” she hissed. “The powers you possess are not from the Lord of Light. Darkness hunts you—and blue eyes set their gaze on the Wall you hide behind. Yet I cannot see anything about you in the flames. It is as if you have no purpose here at all. No design, no existence. But the world bends itself around you, giving allowance to changes it shouldn’t. You have the capability of setting this world on a course it was never meant to follow. Saving lives that weren’t meant to be saved. In trying to help, your fire may plunge the world into an everlasting night.”

Each word seeped into Bramble like poison, making her knees weak and throat dry.

“Get out,” Bramble snarled. “Or we’ll see if your lord can protect you from my fire.”

With a hard stare, Melisandre gathered her dress and left the library. When the door shut, Bramble slumped back in her chair and drew in a shaky breath. What the hell was that all about? Melisandre just _loved_ doing shit like that. She wanted to dissect Bramble, to lay all her secrets bare and use them against her.

But would she really?

What if Melisandre already knew the existence of other worlds? She mentioned that Bramble wasn’t from this place. Maybe that implied she wasn’t from this world at all. _Or_ it was just another tactic to get Bramble to talk.

She didn’t know. Better to just wait things out until the Boltons were dealt with. That shady bitch could go to hell. Because though Bramble still didn’t know a lot of things about her, she was certain that Melisandre didn’t have her best interests at heart.

After an hour of scanning arithmetic books and scribbling equations down on parchment paper just for the hell of it, the library door creaked open again. Bramble’s eyes flashed to the entrance, half-expecting to see the Red Woman again.

It wasn’t.

“Grenn?” Bramble called, genuinely surprised. “What’re you doing here?”

She could see the redness in his cheeks from several feet away. “I, er, just thought I’d stop by. Doing the rounds and all that.”

Bramble doubted the truth of his words, but it made her stifle a smile nonetheless. She beckoned him to join her at the table. His boots scuffed loudly against the floor as he walked further into the library. It dawned upon Bramble that they were completely alone.

“What’s all this?” Grenn asked abruptly, pointing to the loose pieces of parchment with equations and graphs on them.

“Oh, uh, just math stuff. Staying here all night gets boring sometimes.”

Grenn picked up a piece of parchment, eyes scanning over its contents in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like this! Where’d you learn to…to do this?”

Bramble shrugged, toeing the line of truth. “Where I’m from, a lot of people can learn mathematics. Most actually _have_ to for their studies.” She gestured to the book of equations. “This is more complex stuff, but it’s nothing I can’t do.” Bramble found herself smiling a little shyly. Was that bragging?

“Amazing.” Grenn looked at the parchment a little longer before setting it down and clearing his throat. “So, er, you’re leaving in a couple days, right?”

“Right.” Bramble said the word slower than normal, creating an awkwardness that turned her ears red.

“Well, I just—I just wanted to say that we’re all gonna miss you. Me and Pyp and Edd. Some of the other boys, too. You’ve done so much here, a-and, er, well…”

Grenn stopped and shook his head, frustrated. “I’m no good with words, Bramb. Never been. But—” He reached down into his pocket and pulled out a thin leather strap with a small, plain gray stone hanging off it. “Wanted to give you this.”

Bramble stepped around the table and tentatively closed the distance between them. The fireplace they now stood beside cast a yellow glow on Grenn’s face. His eyes were a soft blue with wells of gray in the center. How had she never noticed? “What for?” she asked, like an idiot.

“I grabbed it before the Night’s Watch took me from the farm. Always gave me good luck. I thought—you could use it, yeah? With where you’re going.”

“Oh, Grenn, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Take it.” He said it more forcefully than he wanted to, so he closed his eyes and talked in a steadier, calmer voice. “I want you to have it.”

Darting a tongue between suddenly dry lips, Bramble took the leather necklace from Grenn’s hand. He breathed a sigh of relief and opened his eyes again to watch as she placed it over her head. It hung low and settled between her breasts, heavier than it should have been.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to come up with other words.

They stared at each other in the silence of the library. Bramble’s heart thumped wildly, fanning the flames inside her. Grenn looked uncertain, and his eyes flickered away from Bramble. Should she be doing something? Was he waiting for her to—

Every thought vanished when Grenn placed a quick, soft kiss on her lips. The scruff of his beard tickled Bramble’s skin. She stiffened, eyes still open in surprise. Before Bramble could close them and relax, though, Grenn stepped away and regarded her like he was just as shocked as she was.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, turning to flee. “I’m so sorry.”

But Bramble grabbed Grenn’s hand, spun him around, and firmly kissed him back. He instantly melted, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close. Bramble found Grenn’s scruffy cheeks and cupped them with her hands, basking in the closeness they now shared. She felt a smile on his eager lips, spurring a smile of her own.

So this was what all-consuming happiness felt like. Then again, how could that have surprised Bramble? Grenn always made her the happiest, from the first day she knocked him on his ass in the courtyard to now. There was a brightness in each kiss, a desire Bramble didn’t even know she suppressed.

The fire in the hearth climbed higher the deeper the kisses became and the more they lingered, until it seemed that there was nothing in the world but Grenn, Bramble, and the glow of the firelight behind her closed eyes.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tilly Time" means it's time to throw down, according to Letterkenny. And by the way, if there are any Canadian/Ontario region readers enjoying this fic, hit me up with some slang words. I'd love to use them. I just don't know any because I live in Idaho.


	26. Chapter 26

Shireen sat in a chair, arms stiffly folded against her stomach. Instead of looking away like a pouty child, she stared at Bramble and Davos with the cold scrutiny of a princess.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Davos apologized—again. That was why he needed Bramble here. Because he’d give in if it was just him. She had to be the stout backbone in this team. “But we are going to war. Who knows what will happen? I don’t want you in the middle of it—”

“I won’t be in the middle of it.”

“Even then, we might lose. And then the Boltons will have you, which means the Lannisters will have you. They won’t chance letting a Baratheon live.”

“I have no desire in becoming queen.”

“Aye, but they won’t believe that.” Davos glanced at Bramble for strength. She slightly nodded her head in encouragement. “You’ll be safe here at Castle Black. Edd and Grenn and Pyp are gonna look after ya.”

“Safe? Here?” Shireen clenched her gloved fists and stood. “I’m surrounded by men who want to rape and torment me. Even with this.” She pointed to the greyscale scarring. “And what if you lose the battle? Will I just be stuck here until somebody turns away for a few moments and comes back to find me dead? No. I’m coming with you. I’ve been to war before—”

“And look what happened when you did.” Bramble understood Shireen’s anger, but her mind—their minds—had already been made up on the matter. “You’re staying here, Shireen. When— _if—_ we win, then Edd or Grenn will see that you’re safely brought to Winterfell.”

Shireen opened her mouth to argue again, but Bramble cut her off. “And if we all die, you’ll sail to Essos.”

“Essos?” she rebuked. “Why in the world would I go to Essos?”

Bramble felt Davos’ surprise. This hadn’t been discussed in any prior meeting.

Checking over her shoulder to make sure the door was closed, Bramble moved close to Shireen and put her hands on the princess’ small shoulders. “You will find Daenerys Targaryen. She will protect you.”

“The Targaryen?” Davos repeated more quickly than Shireen could. He stepped closer to them as well and lowered his voice. “She’ll kill anyone with Baratheon blood.”

“No. She won’t.” Bramble sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind Shireen’s ear. “Or, at least I think she won’t.”

“Is this what you saw?” Shireen asked quietly, her anger temporarily subsiding. “Like how you saw…what was going to happen to me?”

Bramble squinted her eyes and tilted her head. “Eh…something like that?”

“What do you mean, ‘something like that?’” Davos tried to replicate Bramble’s accent, but it only made his brogue more pronounced.

“I _mean_ that I’ve seen what a good person Daenerys Targaryen is. She’ll protect Shireen.” Bramble turned her head back to directly speak to the princess. “And besides, you have the Baratheon name. Daenerys wouldn’t hesitate to bring allies of your family to her side.”

“So she’ll just use me? I’ll be a pawn in somebody else’s war?”

“No—” Bramble took a breath and focused her gaze. “Shireen. You would never let yourself be a pawn. You’re too stubborn for that. Think of this just as a backup plan, alright?”

Shireen pushed her lips to the side in thought. Eventually, _thankfully,_ she nodded once in agreement. “Fine. I’ll stay here. But the moment you take Winterfell, you must write for me.”

“I will.” Bramble pulled her into a hug. “I promise.”

Shireen didn’t ask Bramble to promise to come back from the battle. She already knew what happened when armies marched against one another. After Bramble let go, Davos took his turn. He held the princess close to him and kissed the top of her head. They were the closest thing to family, now, and they clung to each other with that unspoken truth.

Bramble lowered her gaze.

-

Jon stood atop the Wall, once a figure of black now someone dressed in dark browns and grays. A new cloak draped his shoulders, the fur lining around his collar shifting in the icy wind.

Bramble wore nothing more than a tunic and a leather vest cinched tight. The blasts of forsaken Northern air felt good on her skin, soothing the heat constantly burning under the surface. Like Jon, the top part of her black Filipina hair was pulled back and bound in the smallest strand of cord she could find. She hadn’t realized her hair had gone from Zuko-shaggy to just long and unruly until this morning.

“Thought we could get one last look before we go,” Jon said, giving her one of his side-glances and half-smiles. “Seeing as it’ll probably be our last.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Bramble stopped and stood next to him, folding her arms. She stared out at the vast, white expanse of the realm Beyond the Wall. “You never know how things are going to turn out.”

“Always optimistic, aren’t you?” Jon asked the question wryly. Bramble frowned a little. Since when was she considered the optimistic one? Everything here sucked ass.

They stood there, soaking in the last few rays of dawn that disappeared into the gray sky of winter. The burnt trees from Mance’s assault, the black basalt rocks that broke through snow like scales and claws. Bramble breathed in the old, haunting magic she once hated. The Wall’s magic, while solemn and unforgiving, kept another type of blue-eyed magic at bay.

“Those black rocks under the snow,” Bramble suddenly started saying, asking herself why she was talking at such a somber moment, “you know it’s from lava, right? Basalt rock. It means that, at one point in this world’s formation, lava once spewed across the land from a volcano.”

Jon gave her a look comprised of confusion, amusement, and curiosity. “Really? How d’you know?”

She shrugged. “I just know it from what I’ve learned. Basalt rocks are the most common type of igneous rock. Volcanic rock. Somewhere there’s a volcano out there that made all this. If everything wasn’t covered in snow, we’d probably find more dragon glass. That’s made from volcanoes, too. Or dragon fire, I suppose.”

Biting his lip, Jon considered if he was going to say anything or not. Bramble hoped he wouldn’t.

“You’re a lot smarter than anyone here, Bramb.”

“No, not really—”

“Yes, really.” Jon faced her. Frost had formed on his beard. “You’re a lot smarter, you can summon fire on your fingertips, you know the future—”

“No, not really—”

“You can fend off giants, run miles on end, and the Night King wants you. Am I missing anything else?”

_I’m from another world._

“No, not really.” Bramble sighed and leaned against the Wall’s crude parapet. Jon copied her movement, that half-smile forming again.

“You been kissing up on Grenn, haven’t ya?”

She hung her head and snorted. “Who told you?”

“Ah, Grenn probably told Pyp, Pyp told Edd, an’ Edd told me.” Jon was full-on grinning, now, the corners of his eyes crinkling boyishly. “So?”

“So?” Bramble mockingly repeated. That made Jon laugh more.

“How’d he do it? Trip over you and somehow planted one on? Spill soup on you? Or did your fire actually catch _him_ on fire? There’s thousands of possibilities.”

“Alright, alright, you’re being ridiculous. _He_ kissed me.” Bramble bit her lip, unable to stop the grin. “Then he tried to run away, but I managed to catch him again.”

Once their laughter faded, Jon said a little sadly, “Terrible timing, innit?”

“Feelings always have terrible timing.” Bramble let out a sigh and tried not to let her emotions dig too deep into sensitive areas. “Still, we hope that it will all work out in the end.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Bramble stared out into the vast land beyond. The land of the Night King. If she thought long enough, she could feel something staring back at her from the snowy, dead-infested mountains.

“Then at least it happened at all.”

-

The small stone weighed down on Bramble’s chest. She took it up again for the hundredth time and rolled it between her fingers.

They were leaving today.

The sun hadn’t risen, yet, and wouldn’t peak over the Wall for a while longer. But already she heard the commotion of horses getting ready and brothers giving orders in the courtyard. Her small pack of clothes sat by the door. It was more than anything she’d ever had since coming here.

Fuck. This hurt.

Bramble refused to cry. She knew this had been a long time coming—and under much better circumstances. She was going to help reclaim Winterfell and end the nightmare marching for them. That was a good thing.

Still, the ache in her throat didn’t come from the fire.

Grenn had come to see her just a few hours ago. He’d be on the Wall by the time Jon and Bramble left, so he snuck in to spend the dwindling time they had together. They didn’t talk much; any words would just further cultivate the entrenching sadness in their hearts. So they shared kisses, held each other close, and fervently hoped that they’d see each other again before their lives were forfeit.

Bramble wished things were normal, where she could clutch this newfound adoration and burst with happiness. Where she and Grenn could talk on the phone for hours and text in between, then go on normal dates for normal people. She’d introduce him to her parents. Bramble knew her parents would like Grenn.

Instead, though, she was all knotted up about the whole thing. The happiness she found in Grenn entangled with worry and darkness and flame. Everything was tainted, here. Even love.

Shireen hugged Bramble tight, keeping a brave face like a princess should. Bramble gave Balerion one last scratch behind the ear before turning to Pyp and embracing him, as well.

“Be careful, yeah?” Pyp whispered. Bramble could only nod.

Then she was on her horse, riding out the gate next to Davos.

Bramble took one more look behind her. The gates to Castle Black slammed shut, ending something she realized too late had even begun.

So she looked forward again, to the white, craggy landscape of the cold North. Bramble ignored the hole in her pitiful heart. She was accustomed to the pain of things ending. At least…at least this time she had a chance to say goodbye.

Because for all she knew, she wouldn’t make it past this battle.

-

“You have to _feel_ it in your belly,” Tormund animatedly instructed. A fist pounded against his stomach, then hers. “Use the rage!”

“Alright, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bramble deadpanned. She, Tormund, and Davos stood on the edge of Jon’s encampment. A single plank of wood stuck in the hard snow about nine meters away.

“Don’t have to actually have the fire to know its kiss,” Tormund grinned. He took it upon himself to instruct her in the Art of Fire…even though nobody but Bramble wielded the power. “It’s the same fire you feel when you’re ramming an ax into a man’s chest, or touching a beautiful woman for the first time.”

The same kind of fire when Bramble kissed Grenn, breathless and lost in the taste of his lips.

She shoved the memory away.

“Just—imagine that’s an enemy coming right for you,” Davos said, pointing to the wooden plank. “You got no sword and there’s no way out. What’re you going to do?”

“I guess I’ll die.” Bramble shrugged and made a noncommittal face.

“What—no,” Davos grumbled. “You can be a little shit later. Now you gotta train. Practice. We’re heading to Winterfell in less than a week. Think you’re going to be ready by that time?”

“Most likely not. But…” Bramble popped her neck and got into a stance. “Might as well put it to good use.”

She breathed, called upon an all-too-eager fire, and bounded one, two times forward. Her arm pitched the roiling flame cupped in the palm of the same hand. It released, shooting through the air, and…

Bramble overshot the plank of wood. It violently exploded against rock and snow, sending a spray of stone and water up into the pallid air.

The three stood there.

“Huh.” Bramble clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Well. It works.”

“Ya missed your target,” said Davos. “By quite a bit.”

“It hit the imaginary army behind him, eh?”

Tormund clapped Bramble on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Little Crow,” he beamed. “We’ll get you hitting men left and right. Just need to master the fire a little more, that’s all.”

“Oh, and I’m sure you can show me exactly how.”

He bent down and balled up a handful a snow. Then, with barely a pause, Tormund hurled the snowball at the wooden target. It solidly landed with a small _puff_ when the snow broke apart. “First,” he instructed sagely, “we need to work on your aim.”

Okay. So Tormund knew how to throw a snowball like Buddy the Elf. Nice.

Bramble decided to quit giving him shit and actually listen to advice the two men offered. When Jon and Sansa trudged up the path two hours later to see how things were progressing with their fire-wielder, thankfully she had something to show for it.

“Check it.” Bramble threw a literal—yes, a _literal—_ fireball at a new wooden plank ready to join its charred comrades. Instead of relying on her aim, Bramble relied on whispering to the fire where it should go. As long as she launched it from her hand, it always obeyed. Mostly because it knew it would get a chance to burn whatever it touched.

The plank dislodged from the ground and spiraled into the air like a flaming torch of glory. Davos whistled at the height the plank reached before falling back into the snow another ten meters from its original point.

Sansa stared, speechless. “Well done,” said Jon. “Keep working at it. Think about making things…bigger.”

“Bigger boom. Got it.”

“Will you be able to use your gift against the Boltons?” Sansa finally asked. Her eyes remained on the flickering firelight in the distance.

“Probably. But even with a ranged assault, it still shouldn’t be the primary weapon. I can’t blow anything up when our own soldiers are in the mix.”

“True. We’ll have to use it fast, then, at the very start. Before our men get caught in the blasts.” Jon scratched his beard, musing upon all the choices he had to make in such little time. “Come on. It’s getting dark. Best call it a day and put some food in your belly.”

As they all walked back to the encampment, it dawned upon Bramble that…that she was _going to war._

War.

And from the sound of it, Jon planned to have her at the very head.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took forever to post. It's one of those in-between chapters that have to be there for the sake of transition. I had a really hard time writing just a short amount.   
> And I'm also sorry that you didn't get to see much Bramble/Grenn interaction. But don't worry, it's not the last we'll see of him :)  
> The reference Bramble was making in her "Guess I'll die" phrase is that one meme. She tried to mimic the face, too.  
> Next chapter: The Battle of the Bastards!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This is the Battle of the Bastards, so there are some graphic depictions of violence

The world was silent, save for shifting armor and banners snapping in the light wind.

Bramble stood next to Tormund and the two giants. She wore armor for the first time in her life. It wasn’t much; stiff leather covered her torso, and matching bracers were strapped around her forearms. Other than that, all she wore was a thick wool tunic, gloves, and trousers Sansa personally fitted to her shape. Even the shoes were from Castle Black.

As Sansa sewed Bramble’s trousers in her spacious tent, she asked the Stark if she was worried about being able to win. Even though they had a few minor houses backing them, two giants, a few thousand wildlings, and Bramble herself, Sansa frankly replied that she was.

So Bramble…nudged her a certain way.

Because let’s face it: they still weren’t going to win this without help from the man Bramble despised more than the Red Woman. The man she had never even met.

A sword hung on each of Bramble’s hips. Tormund gave them to her before they headed out to face down the Boltons. “You’re gonna fight the wildling way, Little Crow,” he grinned. She also had a dagger in each boot.

This wasn’t anything like when Mance Rayder laid siege to Castle Black. Bramble could smell burning flesh from the torched flayed men scattered in the space between the two armies. She saw the opposing soldiers clearly in the gray daylight, bows in their grips and sturdy metal armor glinting in the sparse patches of light. Many of them were mounted on horses. Fifty brothers weren’t going to die today; thousands of men were. The black mass of death writhing under each army’s feet testified to it.

The only similarity Bramble could find between the two battles was that they were, again, outnumbered.

Ramsay Bolton emerged from the bulk of his army, towing a teenage boy behind him on rope. Bramble’s stomach dropped. Rickon. He was going to die.

Jon got off his horse and walked to the front line. Bramble nervously looked to Rickon and Ramsay again, then started walking to Jon. Her breath felt hot in her throat. This had to happen. If Rickon lived, Jon wouldn’t be crowned King in the North. He wouldn’t meet Daenerys, he wouldn’t pledge his allegiance, and everything could change in ways Bramble never imagined.

But it’s a terrible thing to live with. Knowing someone who is loved will die, and standing aside to watch it happen.

Bramble latched her hand onto Jon’s arm. He didn’t notice; every ounce of his focus was trained on his little brother. “Jon,” she whispered. It took everything in her to stay calm. “Remember what Sansa said? Remember that he’s going to _bait_ you. But you can’t fall for it.”

Ramsay cut Rickon’s bonds and shoved him forward. Rickon stumbled a few feet, confused. He paused for a moment—just a moment. For Ramsay was being handed a bow and a full quiver of arrows.

Rickson started running.

Jon sharply inhaled and ripped his arm away from Bramble to get back on his horse. “Jon, no!” Bramble exclaimed, but her words fell on deaf ears. Jon raced past her on his horse, heading right where Ramsay wanted him to be.

This would all play itself out. Bramble was certain.

Or was she?

Tormund hurried to Bramble. “He’s going to get himself fucking killed before this even starts,” he snarled quietly.

Bramble continued to watch. Death strayed behind Rickon, following like a hound on his heels. Her teeth ground together. _This has to happen,_ she repeated over and over in her head. _This has to happen._

An arrow flew at Rickon, missing just by a few feet. Ramsay was only toying with him.

“He’s not gonna make it in time,” Tormund whispered. When Bramble glanced at him, she was surprised to find Tormund _despairing._

The thought of Olly cruelly struck Bramble with such force she couldn’t think straight for a moment. She snapped her gaze back to Rickon and Jon, two brothers who would never again embrace and laugh together. Bramble didn’t do anything for Olly, made herself _believe_ there was nothing that could be done. And he died, just like Rickon was about to.

But what if she was wrong? Wrong about everything?

Images, memories, ran rampant. Olly laughing with Bramble. Olly getting up from the muck to keep practicing his sword fighting. Olly blushing as he got teased. Olly dead on a rope.

Bramble let out a strangled cry. Fuck this. Fuck the future.

Then she was running across the empty land, heart a thunderstorm in her ears. She could catch up to Jon’s horse, take the lead, and save Rickon. But the death behind him was rearing up and she needed to _go faster._

Everything felt so serene, for a few brief seconds. Bramble couldn’t hear anything. Each time a foot connected with the frozen ground it sent a purposeful, powerful tremor through her system. The fire warmed. Her breath came out in steady rushes.

A little more and she’d reach Rickon—

But death decided to come early for the Stark boy.

The sound of an arrow piercing Rickon’s chest shattered all the silence. Bramble stumbled to a halt, hands brushing against the cold mud a second before she got upright again.

Rickon gasped for his last, bloody breaths seven meters away. Jon could only watch from atop his horse as his little brother went still. Bramble could only watch as death seeped away into the ground, taking someone with it.

Jon’s head slowly turned to Bramble. His brown eyes were awash with grief—and wrath.

Then he looked to Ramsay, and the whole world braced itself for chaos.

“Don’t, Jon!” Bramble yelled. “We need to regroup—”

But he kicked his horse into a gallop, charging alone into the army.

The whole plan had gone to shit, with Jon racing ahead and arrows already hissing through the sky. Bramble’s fists ignited. She shouted out, “Piss!” and turned back to their army, avoiding the hail of arrows sinking into the ground where she stood moments before. It’d be too far to leap into the Bolton army from her distance, and she’d be unlucky enough to get stuck with an arrow before even reaching a close enough proximity. No, she needed to get to the line of Bolton archers, who stood behind the large cavalry. Get them, and the Bolton’s long-range defense would be crippled.

The Stark army was charging, now. Bramble ran faster. She _swore_ she wouldn’t even consider what she was about to do.

But these were desperate times.

“Mag Mar!” Bramble screamed at the top of her lungs. She was gaining a terrible amount of momentum, hoping that it’d pay off. “Mag Mar!”

The giant, who was charging with the army, saw her waving a flaming fist to catch his attention. He slowed to a stop, and Bramble swore she saw Mag grin. _This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy._

But her thoughts didn’t connect with action. She coiled all the momentum into a single, stupidly ill-thought leap.

And she got _launched._

Bramble’s arms windmilled as she soared through the air, back to the charging army she rapidly descended onto. Tears from the wind whipping at her eyes streaked back onto hot temples, and oh, no, she didn’t know what to do with her legs at all. They wouldn’t break, would they? Her trajectory to Mag Mar was spot-on, though. Turned out instead of throwing fireballs, Bramble would be throwing herself.

But this wasn’t even the plan. It was just her _getting_ to the plan. Bramble slammed into Mag Mar, who enveloped her in his huge arms to make sure she didn’t slide off like a cracked egg on the side of a window. The force jarred all her senses, so the moments between landing and being cupped in the giant’s hand blurred together.

The next thing Bramble knew was that she now sat in Mag Mar’s calloused palm. She adjusted herself with the few precious seconds given to her while Mag raised his arm up and back. Then he started moving forward, again, letting out a mighty roar that made her eardrums ache. Bramble took one last unhindered breath.

Mag Mar catapulted Bramble back into the sky, high enough that she’d avoid the arrows and far enough that she’d reach the Bolton army. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t move.

There should have been a sense of peace, right? Serenity before madness. Too bad she didn’t feel it.

 When Bramble soared across the battlefield and into certain destruction, it suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t know how to land.

And she wasn’t going to make it to the archers. No, she was falling too fast and too soon, right into the Bolton cavalry. Not that Mag Mar was at fault; he couldn’t read Bramble’s mind on where she wanted to end up. Communication wasn’t her best trait, and because of that she was going to crash into the charging chaos.

So be it.

Bramble took control of her flailing legs and arms. She wasn’t about to embarrass herself by doing a literal belly flop into the army. The fire cracked and sparked to life inside her. It was so powerful and barely contained that Bramble swore she felt flames lick the back of her throat. Just—just a little longer—

Her arms lifted up into clenched, flaming fists. Bramble screamed with all her fury and terror as she fell into the midst of the cavalry and the lake of death below. One Bolton soldier looked up at the last second to see her coming down with full force. His face shaped with shock and fear, and Bramble wondered if he knew he was about to die.

She unleashed her hold on the fire a second before she hit the ground, right between shouting soldiers and thundering hooves.

All sounds—all perceptions—were swallowed up with the fire’s massive roar upon impact.

Bramble’s fists slammed into the earth. Immediately her vision became blinded by hurricane of red and orange and blue. It felt as if her entire body would be burned away to ash with the sheer force of the fire. Just like at Hardhome.

She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t do anything but feel her blood boil and flesh consumed by flames, flames, flames. Maybe it was for the best. Go out in a blaze, secure the victory, and be remembered until memory fades and the myth of Jon Snow’s fire-wielder passed into a calm nothing.

Fire clogged Bramble’s throat, suffocating all humanity with savage wrath. One thing rang clear in the battle inside her: Bramble _is_ the weakness.

This had been a terrible mistake.

_“Hey, cheer up, Shamble,” Dad chuckled, patting her on the hunched shoulder. She groaned and rubbed her forehead, absolutely and utterly done with school. “So literature isn’t your best subject. Just means you’ll get more juice in the math department.” He lightly rapped the top of her head with his knuckles for good measure._

_“I’m never going to use this in my life,” Bramble complained, saying the cursed phrase her teacher parent despised above all else._

_“That’s not true.” Dad took Bramble’s text and examined the poem Bramble was meant to analyze. “Oh, hey, this is Robert Frost. He’s an easy poet! You’re just being lazy.”_

_“Then what does this poem even mean, Dad? You tell me.” She pointedly drew her finger under a line and read, “’The woods are lovely, dark, and deep/But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep.’”_

_“Psh. It just means there’s still a lot to do before you can rest. Wherever that resting is.”_

_“It’s not as simple as that.” Bramble paused and looked to Dad. “Is it?”_

_He shrugged. “It’s as simple as you want it to be.”_

_“I don’t think that’s how poetry works.”_

_“Then you don’t know poetry at all.” He nodded sagely at his words. Bramble squinted at him._

_“I’m just going to Sparknote it.”_

As Bramble lay there in burning ruins, wishing she could just not care about what happened and lay herself down to darkness, she understood why she would not. Will not. It really…it really was that simple. Dang.

Dad had been right.

_You’re not done, yet._

Bramble sat up on her knees, fighting the fire’s rage and dragging it back down inside her with all the power of a broken soul’s will. It fought. Oh, it _fought._

But Bramble would not be weak. She refused to be scourged out of her own body and lay waste to everything for miles. This battle was hers to win. Not the first, not the last. The power that coursed through Bramble’s veins would not be her undoing.

There are miles to go.

She breathed in acrid, ashy air and opened dark green eyes.

The innermost ring of the blast was nothing but blackened, scorched earth. Further out, Bramble saw mangled and melted remains of soldiers and their horses. What hadn’t been killed on sight now screamed and fled as fire ate away at their armor and skin. Gray ash hung in the air, replacing the tranquil snowfall. It blocked out the light, plunging Bramble’s corner of the world into smoky shadow.

Her nose bled. It was…familiar.

Exhaustion weighed down on Bramble. She coughed as foul air tarnished her lungs, and falling ash stuck to her sweaty brow. Freak, she was too hot.

Bramble was reminded that she knelt in the middle of a battle larger than her own when a soldier came charging in to cut her down.

Right.

The fatigue receded as fire took up comfortable residence once more. She bared her teeth, accepted the forthcoming death, and pulled out both swords from their sheaths.

In a few quick slices, the soldier lay dead behind Bramble. The ash began to clear, like a curtain pulling back to reveal a monstrous storm of metal, blood, and sorrow.

Bramble could only enter the fray.

-

The battle raged on. Bramble used her fire in a few other dire circumstances, but she couldn’t risk being caught up in trying to tame it again. So she relied on the blades in her hands and cut down without thinking, without feeling. Just killing.

The battle stunk of blood and shit. Death ran in rivers through corpses of men and horses. Because of Ramsay’s relentless hail of arrows, bodies piled up in mountains. They, in turn, became points of defense and offense for both armies. There was no clear military tactic. The only goal was to kill before you got killed.

 Bramble found herself climbing up a ridge of corpses, breath and movement wild, to cut down an archer who didn’t see her approaching. Death’s saccharine flavor filled her mouth, but she slashed at the archer’s back anyway. He shouted and fell to the blackened embrace, adding to the monument of this festering world.

Another Bolton soldier Bramble didn’t hear coming because of the chaos tried to surprise her and run his blade through her side. She narrowly dodged it but lost her footing on an arm. The soldier took another swing and landed a shallow slice to her scalp. Bramble grabbed hold of him as she fell, and together they rolled down the hill of dead bodies. She lost the sword in her right hand, but luckily the left one had been sheathed earlier.

Bramble was already scrambling up when they hit the bottom. She charged for the solider, who struggled to get on his feet, and slammed her hand into his face. He screamed as fire erupted from her palm and burned so hotly the soldier died in a few seconds.

Death caught him, feasting like carrion.

Bramble found herself near the bulk of what was left of Jon’s army. She spotted both Mag Mar and Wun Wun tossing and crushing soldiers. Arrows stuck out from their thick bodies, and she wondered if it hurt them badly.

The head wound Bramble suffered from bled profusely; there was nothing she could do to staunch the flow. If she had time, she’d strip cloth off a corpse and tie it around the injury, but Bramble couldn’t pause for a second without getting attacked. It didn’t matter if she tried wiping the blood away. It soaked through her armor, her boots. It’d be like trying to dry off with a wet towel.

Bramble started cleaving her way through Bolton soldiers—but there were still _so many_ of them. Coming at her from all sides. It got even worse in the bulk of it. Bramble was basically side-to-side with enemies, cutting them down only for another to take their place. The head wound mixed with sweat and stung even more. Bramble couldn’t tell whose blood was smeared on her face after a while, though. Faces and shouts merged into one hazy memory happening right before her eyes, constructing so long as a blade plunged itself into a living being. Bramble entered a medium, a state of existence that seamed time together.

She lost herself in war.

So much that Bramble forgot what came next. Forgot until she heard more soldiers marching and large Bolton shields surrounding their army. They formed a half-circle, trapping everyone against the largest mountain of corpses.

_Shit._

The spears lowered and Bolton soldiers began moving closer. Bramble quickly got swallowed up by the panicking men around her. She tried pushing her way back without being too excessive, but the soldiers kept tightening the circle.

And then more enemies came rushing down the pile of bodies, sealing off any chance of retreat. Mag Mar and Wun Wun started attacking the shield wall, and other men followed. Bramble got sucked too far in to be with the rest of them. If she could just—get—out—

The suffocating army swelled in a sudden burst of motion, sweeping Bramble away. Her protests were drowned out by men dying and men fighting to live. She needed to make a break for it and get to the front of the line where enemies were pouring over. That way she’d be able to use her fire without allies being in the way.

But that’d only add to the bloody pandemonium, wouldn’t it? Then it might actually diminish their chances of winning, especially if the Knights of the Vale couldn’t see in the smoke and fire. She couldn’t risk being the cause of losing this fucking fight.

Bramble’s half-formed, frantic thoughts were interrupted by a single, slicing question.

_Where’s Jon?_

_-_

Feet trampled him into the bloody earth, and each breath Jon attempted to take was quickly stomped out by his own men trying to break through the massacre. It was inescapable. No one would look down and see him struggling to stand. To them, Jon was just another corpse.

He tried calling out for help, but there was no voice in him anymore, barely any life. Jon’s hands kept slipping on the clothes and armor he desperately gripped to haul himself up.

Oh, seven hells.

Jon was going to die like this, wasn’t he?

Someone kicked his head and deafened Jon. The sounds of the battle fled from him, leaving Jon with only his ragged, dying gasps. Maybe it’s what he deserved, though. Thousands of men were dead because of him. They all probably thought they were going to make it through this, too, just like Jon. He’d made it through everything before. Guess he was wrong.

The pain coldly faded. A heaviness clawed at Jon’s eyes, and…

A hand reached down from the heavens, grabbed Jon’s collar, and hauled him up from the depths of death.

His lungs screamed in relief as Jon _breathed._ He tilted his head back and stared up into the gray sky, vision sharpening and body regaining strength. He was alive. He was alive.

Jon lowered his gaze back down to his savior. Her foreign face was as grim-set as ever, dark green eyes alight with the fervor of war. Blood soaked her black hair and trailed down her cheek, ear, and neck. It mixed with the muck of battle, sweat, and ash. Blood also flowed from her nose, staining lips and chin crimson. She repeated Jon’s name and shook him as best she could while they were crushed from all sides.

He couldn’t focus on her, though. Faint but fierce flames danced on Bramble’s birthmark. Her hand, still gripping Jon’s collar, lightly burned his skin. Heat rolled off Bramble like an open oven, and for a dazed moment he worried if she couldn’t control the full extent of the fire that already surfaced on the darkened red part of her skin.

When all Jon did was continue to gasp for air, which now turned hot from Bramble’s presence, she turned her anxious eyes to survey the situation around them. Bolton soldiers killed men to the north, and Umber and Karstark soldiers killed men to the south.

It looked like Bramble only prolonged Jon’s death.

They spotted Davos standing several meters away from them, also trapped in the massacre. His foreboding and bloodied expression mirrored Jon’s. They knew what this would come to.

Jon and Bramble locked eyes once more. She seemed to be waiting for something.

Then a horn echoed across the waste. Bramble grinned. It was sharp and wild and rare. White against red.

Jon looked past Bramble’s shoulder to see a cavalry holding the blue-and-white Arryn banner charging right for the Boltons. _What in the seven hells?_

As Arryn men crashed through the shield wall, decimating soldiers in a matter of seconds, it dawned on Jon who orchestrated these allies. This victory.

Sansa.

Did Bramb know? Was that why she grinned?

The space between Bramble and Jon loosened with the Arryn support. She let go of Jon’s collar and nodded once to him. He returned the same. “Let’s fucking finish this, eh?” Bramble jerked her bloody chin to the hilltop behind Jon. He turned and spotted Ramsay Bolton sitting on his mount, watching as his army was flattened by hooves and struck down by Arryn swords. Watching as an assured victory was lost in less than a minute.

Jon felt his own fire ignite inside.

“Yeah. Let’s fucking finish this.”

-

Bramble ran to Winterfell with Jon, Tormund, the giants, and a portion of the army. Her head throbbed and her body cried for water. But this was almost over. She could last a little longer, couldn’t she?

It took only a glance to see death flagging behind both Wun Wun and Mag Mar. They’d been targeted by the shield wall when they tried breaking it. The shadows clung more to Wun Wun, whose breaths were heavy and blood spilled out his side.

She remembered watching him die after he broke through Winterfell’s gate. Remembered feeling a little sad.

But if Wun Wun died now, Bramble would feel a lot differently.

She checked to see if any blackness resided under her own two feet. Nothing yet. Good.

Because, as usual, Bramble was going to do something stupid.

Winterfell’s gate came into view. Bramble couldn’t appreciate the great, ancient castle like she wanted to. They slowed their pace to formulate a plan.

“Wun Wun, Mag Mar,” Jon called to them as they jogged. He pointed to the approaching gate. “Can you break through that?”

“Let me do it,” Bramble cut in before either giant could respond. “I’ll blast through it.”

“No,” Mag Mar rumbled. He surprised Bramble; why would he care what she did?

“They can take the arrows that’ll come down on them,” Jon agreed. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Crow stay,” said Wun Wun. “Crow too little.”

Bramble scowled. The dried blood on her face cracked with the expression. She looked again to death twisting under them.

“Giant stay!” she yelled in anger, pointing a finger at Wun Wun. He growled. “Giant injured!”

“Bramb, that’s an _order!”_ Jon yelled back. The gate was close, now, and premature arrows penetrated the ground upon their assault.

“They’re about to _die,_ Jon.” The fire sparked with each word. His eyes filled with realization because, yes, she actually _could_ still see who had death clutching at them.

“And what about you?”

What about her?

Bramble didn’t answer Jon. She only set the gate as a target, called the fire, and started running faster than the rest of the ragged men.

“Little Crow!” Tormund shouted as she broke apart from the group. Bramble thought she heard fear in his voice. But she refused to look back—or down. If death awaited her now, let it be a surprise.

Arrows landed behind and in front of Bramble. She ran too quick, however, so they all failed to make their mark.

 _Let me control it,_ Bramble pleaded to whoever listened. _Let me control it._

The gate came within range. Without thinking—just _doing—_ Bramble swiveled both hands together, conjuring a tempest of flame, and threw it with all her might at the gate. The great mass of fire nearly drug Bramble’s soul with it as it left her hands, but she remained grounded.

The fire exploded upon impact, swathing the gate with its burning touch. It blackened, cracked, and splintered. Bramble weakened it. But still it stood. She had to use more than fire. She had to use _force._

Bramble accelerated her run. Flames erupted up her arms, adrenaline fueling their power. An arrow sunk into the ground centimeters from her foot. The shaft snapped in her path. Bramble couldn’t mess this up. If she did, the giants might die anyway because of her failure.

_So don’t fuck up._

Easier said than done.

Nonetheless, Bramble lowered her right shoulder and amplified the fire so it flowed through her whole body. She became a pillar of raging light, of purification and chaos and _power._

Bramble hit the gate and let her flames, her cursed weapon, consume and tear and burn.

Wood shattered from top to bottom. Bolts gave way because of the intense heat and unhinged the gate doors. They crashed to the ground in flaming, charred heaps, unable to withstand Bramble and the fire.

Her fire.

She pulled it back in before it could slip past her hold and stumbled into the Winterfell courtyard. Her boots squelched in the mud and almost caused her to slip. Bramble steadied herself, however, and locked eyes with Ramsay Bolton, who stood only a few meters away from her. He held a nocked bow in his hand. But those eyes. Colder than the Night King’s.

Ramsay released the arrow. Bramble’s enhanced reflexes were the only thing that kept her from getting shot in the head. The arrow screamed past her right ear as she reached in for more fire with one hand and grabbed the hilt of her sword with the other. Behind the scorching wreckage, Bramble heard men shouting as they made for the vulnerable castle.

She did it. Fucking amazing, she did it—

Two arrows struck Bramble’s back, one in the upper shoulder and the other in the ribcage. All air left her and the fire screamed and thrashed.

Bramble staggered once, sword dropping from her hand. She hit the ground. Mud seeped into her mouth. The embedded arrows moved on the impact, causing Bramble’s vision to turn white from the agony.

As Winterfell returned to the Starks, Bramble bled out in an empty void.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already saved one giant. Why not two?


	28. Chapter 28

“Oh. _Owie.”_

Bramble groaned. She didn’t want to open her eyes, but they did anyway.

When she was sixteen, Bramble broke her knee when she slipped on the diving board and cracked it against the edge. The surgery and recovery lasted far longer than Bramble wanted, but Mom took care of her, bringing soda with a straw in it and making misua soup. Bramble and Dad binged _Cowboy Bebop_ and _Bob’s Burgers._ Though she ached and pained, she healed in a cozy home and on a comfortable couch.

But Bramble wasn’t in her home, this time.

The stench of death, wounds, and medicine hung in the air. She lay on her stomach, neck sore from the prolonged position. Bramble apparently had enough importance to be on a cot, but she recovered in the same area with the rest of the injured and dying. Outside of Winterfell’s walls, in a large tent where servants and wildling women tended to men clinging to life and begging for their mothers.

Bramble began the struggle of propping herself up. Pain lanced through her back, jolting and spasming. She whimpered and almost gave out the next second, but a pair of hands reached under her arms to help.

“There ya are, Little Crow.” Karsi’s familiar voice softened the ache living in Bramble. When she sat upright on the cot, sweaty, hot, and sick, Karsi crouched in front of her. Worry and relief wove through her otherwise hardened expression. “Knew you’d wake up.”

Bramble’s mouth was stuffed with dry, unbearable cotton. Karsi uncorked a water skin and handed it to Bramble, who took it with shaking but strong fingers. “Slowly,” Karsi advised. Bramble took a small, delicious sip and swished it around in her mouth before swallowing. Blood and mud went down with it, but she couldn’t bear to even spit the water out. After another small drink that cleared out the rest of the foul taste and dryness, Bramble gave the skin back to Karsi.

Then, she said, “I’m still alive.”

Karsi wryly smiled. “Aye, you are. Surprised everyone else, too.”

“How?” Bramble managed to get out. Hell, she needed to sleep for another week.

“Guessing it was the fire,” Karsi shrugged. “Tormund said when he went to see if you were still alive, the arrows in ya were on fire. They barely needed to pull anything out since most of it burned away. Now look at you; awake and talking only a few hours after.”

“It’s only been a few hours?” Bramble asked the question a little too quickly and broke down into coughs. Each one stabbed into her back. Karsi gave her more water.

“That it has,” she said while Bramble nursed on the water skin, eyes blurred with tears from the hacking. “You shoulda been dead where the arrows got you. I checked your wounds a little while ago; they’re all stitched together. Even the skin. Looks like burn marks.”

Bramble only nodded, processing what she’d been told. Karsi stood with a tired groan. “Come on. Let’s see if you can walk.”

Taking Karsi’s outstretched hand, Bramble let herself get slowly hauled from the cot. She hissed through clenched teeth, eyes scrunching in pain. Whatever got healed sure didn’t feel like it.

Karsi lent support and walked slowly out of the tent with Bramble. It was almost dark, by now. The Northern air soothed Bramble’s heat, calming the very present and rolling fire that awoke with her. Or had it been awake the whole time, repairing organs and muscles, working to save Bramble from the enveloping darkness?

They walked past more tents—both Westerosi canvas and Free Folk hide—occupied by the wounded. Soldiers and noncombatants who walked between them often did double-takes at Bramble. She tried to ignore it. Before the battle, the only ones who knew of her power resided in a single, tight circle.

Now, though, everyone did. The foreign girl with the birthmark could conjure fire.

Great.

Bramble and Karsi passed through Winterfell’s gateless entrance. The twisted and charred wood had been cleaned up, but Bramble noted scorch marks on the stone arch. She did that. Holy shit. Sometimes…sometimes Bramble still couldn’t believe she held the power inside her.

The battle was a blur in her memory. Bramble recalled lots of blood, lots of killing and screaming, lots of fear and fire. By divine luck, she managed to pick Jon out of the mass panic and get him up from under everyone. But he would have gotten out, anyway. Most likely. Bramble didn’t want to think about that.

More people in the courtyard stopped in their tracks to watch Karsi and Bramble move through. “Your name has been on everyone’s lips, Little Crow,” Karsi chuckled lowly.

“I imagine so.” Bramble tried straightening a little so she didn’t look as hunchbacked, but that only produced another agonizing jolt. “Ow! Fuck.”

Karsi laughed at her and Bramble gave a side-eye. “Easy, there, Little Crow. We’ll get you into a nicer bed soon enough. Jon wanted you to be put in one of the castle’s rooms, but they still hadn’t been entirely cleared of Bolton bastards. It would have been harder for someone to tend to you outside of the healer’s tents, too.”

Bramble only grunted. She slipped into a daze lapsing both past and present together.

The ground began to shake. Karsi slowed Bramble to a stop. “Hey,” she said with a gentle shake. Bramble forced her drooping eyelids back open. “Got a couple of lads who wanna talk to you.”

Lifting her heavy head, Bramble saw Mag Mar and Wun Wun standing before her. They didn’t look happy. Then again, they never looked happy.

“Little Crow hurt,” Mag Mar rumbled. “Just like she was warned.”

Bramble blinked. That was the longest sentence she’d ever heard him construct. “Death followed you,” she replied blankly. Right? It twined around them as they made a mad dash for the gates. Her eyes went down to feet large enough to crush a man whole. “It’s not anymore.”

“Stupid,” Wun Wun said. Bramble managed a weak scowl. “Stupid Crow.”

“Ah, don’t be too offended,” Karsi spoke when she saw Bramble’s scowling expression. “That’s just their way of thanking you.”

“Go. Rest.” Mag Mar instructed, gesturing to a castle door. “Then we practice throwing you again when better.”

Bramble’s mouth curled into an unexpected smile. She nodded. Karsi started walking again, guiding her indoors. The daze returned again, even thicker this time. Bramble recalled shuffling up steps, speaking…words...to Tormund, and then laying her head down on a pillow. Cold whispered from an open window, and the fireplace remained ashy and still. Candles flickered, welcoming Bramble to a place of safety.

Karsi placed a hand on Bramble’s forehead and said something she couldn’t hear.

The lights went out again.

-

_Bramble cut down a soldier no older than she. He screamed and screamed, adding to the cacophony of war all around her._

_She waded through a field of bodies. Hands reached out for her, voices pleaded to her. The fire burned brightly._

_“Please! Help me!”_

_Bramble glanced at who called from below. Tyson, the boy who sat next to her in calculus, bled from a blackened, scorched face. He grabbed onto her leg and pulled Bramble down, down, down through writhing bodies._

_“Honey, what’s wrong?” Mom asked at their dinner table. Guts spilled across the plate in front of Bramble. She couldn’t grasp the fork in her hand. Dad lay slumped back in his chair, throat slit. Blood spilled onto his tropical-printed shirt._

_“Don’t worry,” Mom smiled. “We’ll be in Hawaii, soon.”_

_Arrows drove into Bramble’s back and came out her front. She touched an iron tip protruding from her chest. It was cold._

Someone knocked on the door. Bramble opened her eyes and watched a figure enter. Red hair flowed down their back. Pale skin contrasted against a black cloak and dress.

“Sansa,” Bramble croaked. The Stark immediately shivered, breath visible in the room.

“It’s freezing in here,” Sansa remarked. After setting down a bundle of some kind, she moved to close the window above Bramble’s bed. “But that doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Not usually.” There wasn’t as much of a throbbing ache in her back, anymore, so Bramble sat up with less difficulty than before. “What’re you doing here? Aren’t you too…” She squinted. “Important?”

Sansa briefly smiled and poured Bramble a cup of water from the pitcher on an end table. “Things are still disorderly. It’s going to take a few more days until Winterfell can return to a proper normal.”

Bramble glanced out the frosted window as she drank her water. It seemed to be late in the morning. She slept all night, then, plagued by half-remembered dreams of gore and death.

“I’ll send for a bath and meal to this room, now that you’re awake,” Sansa continued, looking around the chamber. While it wasn’t grand, it was still more spacious and comfortable than anything she’d slept in since coming here. A few tapestries adorned the stone walls, and a full-length mirror leaned against one corner. “I imagine you’ll want to wash off the battle.”

Bramble scratched the side of her face at the remark. Dried blood flecked off. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Sansa placed a hand on the bundle she brought in. “And I brought you a change of clothes. Once things settle down, you’ll have more of a wardrobe.” Sansa paused for a moment. “Do you prefer dresses? Or pants?”

The hesitant question made Bramble chuckle. “Both,” she said with a small smile. “I like both.”

The nod Sansa gave made Bramble wonder if she already had some design in mind. “Are you still in pain? I can have the maester come see you.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m feeling much better already.”

Unspoken words flashed across Sansa’s solemn face. Bramble wondered if Sansa, too, came to the courtyard in time to see the destruction Bramble caused and how she lay in the mud with burning arrows sticking out her back. What did she think?

Wait, had she already killed Ramsay? Or did he die differently?

“Very well. When you’re ready, I believe Jon wants to see you.”

“Thank you.”

Lady Stark slipped back out the door, which shut with an old, solid thud. Bramble drank the rest of her water in the silent room. It all felt so strange. There should be… _more_ to it, shouldn’t there? One moment she was disemboweling men on the battlefield, and the next she was getting ready to take a bath in a famous castle. Transition apparently held no dramatic value.

While Bramble waited for the bath to arrive, she went through the clothes Sansa brought. A soft, gray tunic with fitted cuffs and collar, sleek leather trousers and a matching vest with the Stark emblem stamped in, underwear, and socks. Bramble smiled at the attire laid out for her. This kind of outfit was apparently becoming her known _look._ She just hadn’t got the chance to wear dresses, that’s all. Though nobody here would never guess it under the circumstances, Bramble loved getting her pretty on. She knew how to do makeup well and had a clear idea of what looked good on her and others. Before that plane crashed into the ocean and left Bramble awash on the shores of Dorne, she considered majoring in cosmetology or fashion. Or math. But that was a less sexy career, despite her father’s vehement and detailed objections.

Bramble could flick on a wicked-sharp cat eye, though, and apply highlighter that matched both her Filipina-brown skin and the ruddy birthmark. And hey, maybe if she lived through the approaching shitstorm, she could show womankind how to slay just with filled-in eyebrows.

The notion made her smirk. She couldn’t be the girl she was three years ago, anymore. Instead of being a college student pursuing some sort of passion, Bramble fought alongside dirty men and giants to claim castles and stand against the dead. Instead of wielding a foundation brush or a pencil to scribble down math equations, she wielded a near-uncontrollable fire. And swords. Can’t forget those swords.

Thinking too much about this life and her old one sparked the pangs of homesickness and loss, so Bramble walked to the other side of the room and examined a rich tapestry probably a hundred years older than her. It was sewn of thick material, depicting men and wolves hunting a stag together. Bramble ran a finger along the bottom. It reminded her of _Brave._ Her mom cried to that movie every time she watched it.

Bramble missed them. Not a day went by that she didn’t.

Before she could have a full meltdown, servants entered with a meal, a bath, buckets of hot water, and plenty of soaps and fragrances. One of the girls nervously offered to assist Bramble, but she declined. She just wanted to take a sad bath in peace.

The water turned lukewarm quickly because of the room’s frigid temperature. It felt nicer than if it stayed hot, and stopped burning tender back wounds. Bramble scrubbed away the battle, and soon the water turned murky from old blood and muck. She tried not to think about it too much. The servants brought her a razor blade, too, which Bramble hadn’t used on herself since the brothel days. Apparently, ladies who stayed in castles were ladies who shaved as well. Whores and highborns.

Bramble shaved for the sake of familiarity. When she washed her hair, she was reminded of the cut on her scalp. It was tender like her back wounds, but didn’t sting like it should. Upon further prodding, Bramble realized that it, too, had healed somewhat.

Okay. So this whole healing thing was…new. Too bad she didn’t have it when her face nearly got sliced off.

Wasn’t this all a little unfair? The fire, the strength, the speed, the healing, seeing death…Bramble shouldn’t have as much as she did. Right? She was, it seemed, what the cool kids called “overpowered.” And it might not stop, either.

Well. As long as they kept Bramble alive and helped those she cared for, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to keep using them. Dad wouldn’t have liked the violence part, but he definitely would have wanted to use her fire for roasting marshmallows and searing steak. Mom would have made sure Bramble played fair in swimming. And if Bramble had these powers on Earth? She’d high-five her ex-boyfriend and make her hand super-hot so it’d burn him, but he’d have no way to prove it was her. Just a little revenge for dumping Bramble on her birthday and telling everyone she was a crazy bitch.

While Michael graduated and went off to college, though, Bramble died and wound up in a fictional world.

She pushed herself out of the filthy bath and dried off with a towel. The tang of metal, sweat, and blood had finally left her. Now Bramble’s skin smelled like cloves and hair like roses. Her shaved legs felt strange against the crisp air.

Before Bramble dressed, she went to the mirror and lowered the towel enough to see what the arrow wounds looked like. Karsi’s description was accurate; the puckered scars had the texture of burn marks. They still appeared red and angry, but were hardly bigger than an arrow puncture. And only Bramble’s back was sore; nothing internally hurt at all.

She checked out the new scar on her scalp, too. It ran about six inches across and was also red. But unlike the back marks, the scar maintained a thin, inconspicuous line. It’d only be noticeable when Bramble pulled her hair back really tight.

But Bramble left her hair down. She parted the black mess to the side and thoroughly brushed it out with a proper comb. Though the length was barely long enough to be tucked behind her ears, it kept its shape.

For the first time in a very long time, Bramble regarded herself in the mirror and watched her reflection smile back. It wasn’t a full smile, an innocent smile, but it was real. The stone hanging from her neck rolled around between two fingers.

Then she left her room in search of Jon Snow.

-

“It’s good to see you’re up and walking,” Davos said. Bramble had found him during her search for the main hall, which she’d been told Jon was.

“Glad to be alive,” Bramble said back, though she wasn’t sure she entirely meant it. Her eyes glossed over the ancient walls protecting them. _You’re in a castle. An actual, real castle. Not some ruin or recreation._

Oh, her dad would have loved this.

“You sore?”

“Mm hm. But it’s not as bad as it was yesterday.” She tore her gaze away and looked to Davos. “Have you sent a raven to Castle Black? Saying it’s safe for Shireen to come here?” Bramble tried not to think too hard about who would be coming with Shireen. The stone was more than enough of a reminder.

“No, not yet.” Davos’ face turned grim. They approached the tall, dark doors of the main hall. Bramble stifled the rising anger and slowed.

“Why not?”

“Because of her.”

Davos pushed the door open, and on the other side of the large chamber Bramble saw Jon standing next to _her._ Melisandre.

Fuck, that’s right. She’s still here. And without Shireen’s death to exile her, the woman had no reason to go.

“Bramb,” Jon smiled as the two approached. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got shot with two arrows yesterday,” said Bramble, but her eyes stayed on Melisandre. She just had a _look_ that didn’t bode well.

“But you were saved by your fire,” Melisandre spoke with a faint smile of her own. “A very lucky power. A strong power. One that will undoubtedly benefit us in the Great War to come—”

“Stop,” Bramble cut in with the slice of her hand. “Just stop, alright?” She turned to Jon, pointing a finger at Melisandre. “You remember what she’s done, right? What she _tried_ to do? She planned on killing Shireen.”

“But did it happen?” Melisandre questioned. “Nor do I have any further plans for the Baratheon princess. Whatever becomes of her now is in the Lord of Light’s hands.”

“Yeah, but tell them who you did sacrifice, eh? Tell them.”

Melisandre paused, staring at Bramble with cold, disdainful eyes. When she didn’t answer, Jon asked seriously, “Who did you sacrifice?”

In a soft voice, she answered, “Lady Baratheon and some soldiers.”

Davos shook his head in disgust. “You’ve wasted life after life for the sake of your Lord. And look where it all got them! Everyone you promised greatness is nothing but ash and food for crows.”

A silence. Melisandre stayed still, like a sculpture in a dark and sacred temple. Sometimes Bramble forgot the incredible beauty she possessed, cultivated by ages of sorcery and devotion to the strange god overseeing this world.

And she saw a sad woman. Eyes downcast, hands clasped together, skin almost gray in the pallid light.

_No. Don’t you dare pity her._

Then that dark gaze lifted to Bramble. “You wish for me to leave, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“And why is that?” Melisandre tilted her head ever-so-slightly. Her character was shifting, again. Out of the corner of her eye, Bramble saw a shadow flicker into motion, like something was trying to rise from it. She nearly lost her breath.

Melisandre saw fear instantly grip Bramble. She took a step forward, then another, red dress swaying against the stone floor. “Darkness has followed you for quite some time, hasn’t it? Shadows of the night. They pushed you to Castle Black like herding a sheep to the slaughtering pen. But now you’ve escaped.” Melisandre came close to Bramble, and she could smell the sweet incense imbued in the Red Woman’s dress. The ruby in the center of her choker almost seemed to pulse with life.

“You’ve escaped, and they’re drawn to you once more. Do you think you’re free of them? That you will ever be free the further you stray from the Night King’s grasp?”

Bramble broke free of the terror and bared her teeth. “And how the fuck do you know about those, huh?”

The corner of Melisandre’s mouth quirked upward. “It’s sorcery, child. Shadow binding. Weaving them beyond the Wall testifies to the Night King’s power, even as he’s trapped. But you’ve known that for a while now, haven’t you? Even if you chose not to recognize it.”

“And what does this have to do with _you,_ eh?” Bramble hissed. Her hand itched to rip Melisandre’s choker right off her porcelain neck. “I can take care of myself.”

“I am the only one who has kept those shadows at bay,” Melisandre said. “They cannot break through the barriers I’ve woven. Why do you think they haven’t come for you since you returned with your voice and your fire? The moment I leave, they will swarm this place.”

Bramble stared. That…that couldn’t be true, could it? Melisandre? Protecting her? There _had_ to be an agenda. Right?

“Alright,” Jon’s interruption held a harshness that tore Bramble away from the numbing revelation. “What in the seven hells are you two talking about?”

“It’s simple, Lord Snow,” Melisandre answered without taking her gaze off of Bramble. “Your fire-wielder keeps secrets. She has since the beginning, and she will until the end. Secrets that could be the downfall of the world as we know it.”

Fire finally ignited on Bramble’s clenching fists. “Oh, you know what? Fuck you, you stupid fanatic! I’m gonna—”

Melisandre began chanting words that shook Bramble’s bones, made her head erupt in agony, made the fire flee. She doubled over, unable to breathe, to think. Melisandre gripped the top of her head and she screamed. In her dimming vision, Bramble watched Jon brace himself against the hall’s long table, clutching his head.

Then the world burst with red, with the taste of spice and flame and magic.

—Mom and Dad held hands and sung _Edge of Seventeen_ at the top of their lungs in the car.   
Christmas lights blurred on the downtown buildings as they drove.  
Jon, Davos, and Melisandre sit next to Bramble in the backseat.  
Hot chocolate coated her throat—

—Bramble and her mom ate street food in Manila. Tagalog flowed through the busy street.  
Humidity dampened her brow but could not dampen her joy.  
Jon, Davos, and Melisandre stand amidst the crowd—

—Dad taught at the front of the classroom, dry erase marker bobbing in his hand as he spoke.  
Equations dotted the white board. Bramble wrote them down with perfect understanding.  
She leaned over to explain the complex problem to Tyson.  
Instead it’s Jon, staring at her with terrified eyes—

—The concert deafened Bramble. Lights flashed on stage. She couldn’t hear herself singing to the song.  
Bodies bumped together. Her legs and feet hurt from jumping so much with the massive crowd.  
She looked to see where Renee and Valerie were in the tumult and chaos.  
Melisandre stands beside her instead, still and shocked—

—Bramble had dinner with Mom and Dad. They’re laughing and _Pink Floyd_ played in the background.  
Jon, Davos, and Melisandre sit in the usually empty seats. They look desperately around the house.  
This is wrong.  
This is wrong.  
_This is wrong._  
Bramble takes the knife she cut her chicken with and stabs herself in the hand.  
She screamed—

The stone was cold under Bramble’s splayed palms. She coughed and gasped, blood bubbling in her nostrils. Everything—everything was so _real._ What happened? What happened?

She raised her head and saw the three other people in the hall also on the ground. Melisandre’s ruby glowed hotly, and she clutched at her heaving chest for air.

 _“What did you do,”_ Bramble growled, struggling to get to her feet. Her throat burned, like it refused to let her speak. The world tilted and she stumbled back on all fours. Hot sobs choked her. Tears mixed with blood and she was so, so _sad._ “What did you do!”

Bramble wrapped an arm around her aching stomach as it twisted with each cry. Her parents—Mom and Dad—her life—all revisited in a matter of moments.

 _Take me back,_ she pleaded. _Take me back._

Blood and salt water dripped onto the dark stone.

“I…showed them the truth,” Melisandre eventually spoke. She raised herself up onto her knees. Bramble could barely see through the haze of tears. “The truth that would have destroyed this world, should it have remained hidden.”

“You don’t know that!” Bramble screamed, voice cracked and hitched. “You don’t—know _anything.”_ A new wave of tears poured over. It was as if she had been gutted and all her suppressed and raw emotions were now spilling out.

She forced her eyes shut, sobs bouncing off the floor and back up into her ears. “You—it doesn’t matter if I want you gone or not,” Bramble spoke, all anger swallowed up by anguish. She didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was that she hurt inside. Hurt more than whatever swords sliced her face or arrows pierced her back. Hurt like when Olly died. “You just have to go. It’s…necessary. You have to leave.”

The two women stared at each other. “Who are you?” Melisandre asked. Fear consumed those old blue eyes.

“Bramble Aldana.” She uttered her last name like it was a forgotten curse.

Jon groaned and sat up. “What…the hell,” he breathed, wiping away blood leaking from his nose. He looked to Bramble, unable to speak. How could he?

She sighed and darted her eyes between Jon and Davos, who was pale and weak. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a trembling hand.

None of it mattered, anymore. The secrets. Bramble only wanted to go lie down and cry until she was emotionally empty. Everything she tried so hard to keep hidden for her sake and the sake of others had just been brutally ripped out. There was no doubt that they all saw the memories. It hadn’t been another one of Melisandre’s illusions. It was real.

“So,” Bramble said, wearily sitting up. The hall seemed to yawn open, and she wished it would swallow her up like she had seen death do to so many. “Those memories. They’re from another world. I’m from another world.”

Nothing lifted off of Bramble’s chest. Nothing changed. She tucked black hair behind her ears. Melisandre didn’t even look pleased. Just as empty as Bramble. Words were hollow as she repeated the long-kept truth.

“I’m from another world.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm sorry this took so long to post. I had major writer's block as to how I wanted to lay out the last scene with Melisandre.
> 
> Bramb is going to get a rest soon, though.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy dialogue, guys. Sorry about that.

Jon and Bramble stood on Winterfell’s ramparts. A lone figure rode south, shrouded in red that looked almost black in the fading light.

“I’m sorry for not telling you,” Bramble spoke. Everything still hurt inside her, but it was less, now. Like wounds scarring over and leaving aching muscles. Guess all injuries hurt the same in some sense. “But how could I? How could I possibly explain it?”

She turned her head to Jon, who continued to stare out into the unbroken winter landscape. If she set her gaze northward, she would see the remnants of a fresh battle that just happened two days past but felt like a lifetime ago. The crater of Bramble’s airborne impact sat black against the snowfall. The cold choked out the stench of whatever death lingered.

When Jon remained silent, Bramble sighed and rambled on. “I told you the truth about everything. About dying and waking up in Dorne. I drowned with my mom and dad in an ocean—” she drew herself short when her voice began to waver. Once it steadied again, Bramble said, “I…understand if you don’t want to trust me after this. I may have used up all the forgiveness there is to offer. But I think you need me. Fuck, I know that sounds lame—”

Jon suddenly faced Bramble, which startled her. “It’s not about any of that!” he shouted. Jon’s voice echoed across the ramparts, and upon hearing its volume he drew himself back. She tried not to flinch too visibly.

“It’s not about any of that,” repeated Jon, less loudly but more firmly. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, struggling to find the right words. “Bramb—I don’t even know what I just _saw._ For fuck’s sake, I knew you were still keeping secrets! How could I not? You’re— _you._ Of course there’d be things you weren’t going to tell me, and I accepted that fact.” Jon placed a clenched fist against his heart, the other gripping the snow-covered ledge. Bramble realized that this was the most animated she’d ever seen him. “But _that?_ I don’t even know where to start. It’s beyond my fucking comprehension! And that—” He took a sharp breath. “That is saying something, because we literally have the _dead_ marching on us.”

They stared at each other. The fire curled within Bramble to match her shame.

“Then where do you want to start?” Bramble lowly asked. Not for the first time, she felt small compared to Jon. As if disappointing him was the worst possible fate.

“Where—I don’t fucking know, Bramb.” Jon still spoke with a snap to his voice, but there was more sarcasm to it. He rubbed his brow like a headache was coming on. After a drawn-out silence, Jon said, “Those…those people were your parents, weren’t they?”

“Yeah. David and Rosamie Aldana.” Bramble leaned back on the ledge. The snow melted under her. “They were the best. I miss them every day.”

“A-and the thing you were in? Where they were singing and you sat behind them and it was going really fast, but the inside was warm.” Jon’s anger seceded as he allowed his burning curiosity to take its place. “There were lights everywhere outside, too.”

“We were in a car. That’s the regular mode of transportation where I’m from. They were _really_ nice to have.” Bramble found herself smiling despite the gloominess. “If we had one here, it’d only take a few hours to get to the Wall instead of a week. The vehicle is all technology, not magic. The heat you felt is built into all cars, so you can stay warm and comfortable if it’s cold outside. Or, if it’s hot, you can turn on cool air.”

Jon shook his head in utter disbelief. It amused Bramble to see his usually stoic expression cracked. “That’s…amazing.”

“Wait ‘til I tell you about planes, buddy. I died in one, but they’re still fantastic.”

The fire reignited in Bramble, and a little more of the guilt she carried turned into cold flakes of ash.

Sansa came to speak with Jon before all of his questions could be answered. Bramble excused herself, but told him that they could continue their conversation at a later time. And that Davos should probably join in, too. The old man was probably reeling after what he saw.

Bramble retreated to her room. So. That wasn’t as bad as she thought it’d be. No banishment—yet.

Part of her could hardly believe it. People _knew_ where she came from. Bramble never thought that secret would be revealed.

But what was next?

Them finding out the real reason why Bramble could “see” the future? That it was all a show she, her family, and millions of other people watched for entertainment?

Shit.

-

It was decided that Sansa and Tormund should also be informed of Bramble’s true whereabouts. The two of them, Jon, Davos, and Bramble sat in a private chamber with a warm fire. Untouched food was spread out across the chamber’s small table. Bramble tried—and failed—to not stare at a perfect loaf of bread for too long.

“Oh, seven hells,” Davos grumbled. He snatched up the bread and placed it in her hands. Bramble lost control. She chomped down on the loaf and tore off a massive chunk with a growl.

“So, er, the reason why we’re here,” Jon began after clearing his throat. His eyes glanced at Bramble to continue, but she just stared back, chewing on her bread. Jon sighed.

“Sansa. Tormund. The reason why we’re here is to tell you that…that…” Jon gestured to Bramble to make sure they knew who he was talking about. Then, brusquely, he said, “That Bramble is—from another world, apparently.”

Sansa appropriately blurted, “What?”

Tormund, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes suspiciously and moved them back and forth between everyone. He leaned forward, then backward, then propped an arm on his knee. “Wait,” he muttered, eyes narrowing more at Jon. “You’re telling me you didn’t know, already?”

Bramble stopped chewing her bread and audibly swallowed.

_Did he just say…?_

“And you did?” Jon asked incredulously.

Tormund shrugged. “Well. Yeah.”

Numbness crawled up Bramble’s legs. It spread to her arms, her chest, her mouth.

Still, she managed to breathe out, “How? How the _fuck_ did you know?”

The wildling grunted and tossed back some ale. He wiped his mouth and beard with the back of a hand. “Ah, I met some strange folk like yourself before. You acted just like them. Spoke just like them. Figured it was common knowledge, by now.” Roughly, he added with raised eyebrows, “But apparently not.”

Bramble stood. She couldn’t decide on feeling angry or not. Really, she didn’t know even _how_ to feel, so the fire burned hot in her confusion. The table began smoking as a handprint seared into the wood.

This day. This fucking day just _had_ to get weirder, didn’t it? So it might as well happen.

“Who did you meet,” she spoke through a barely-moving mouth.

“Just a woman. Odd hair. Helped me and a few of my kin when we thought we were going to freeze in the cold. I was just a boy, then. Said she was from another world and was just passing through. I thought she was a spirit or something, until she showed up again when my clan was on its way to meet Mance Rayder at Hardhome. They spoke for a while, then she talked to me. All grins and jokes, that woman. Not as serious as you, Little Crow.” Tormund had the audacity to laugh at his funny. Bramble’s scowl deepened.

“Do you know if…if this woman is from Earth? Where I’m from?” Bramble questioned. Tormund’s easiness faded. He leveled her with a sharp gaze, the same as when he said he knew she was a girl hiding amongst the Night’s Watch.

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

“Means that you might be different like her, Little Crow,” Tormund spoke with the slight shake of his head. “But you ain’t where she’s from.” He relaxed once more and folded his arms. “Still, though. Makes me look pretty smart compared to you southern kittens, eh? Here nobody talked about your home, so I figured it was already common knowledge.”

“That doesn’t make you smarter, Tormund,” Jon sighed, rubbing his brow raw.

Bramble sat back down and started eating her bread at a dangerous pace. She wanted to cry. Maybe scream a lot. Burn some shit. But she’d settle with stuffing her face for the moment.

So Tormund knew all along. And he just _rolled_ with it? Didn’t ask any questions? Didn’t imply anything?

Wait. Damn. He _kinda_ had implied stuff, now that she thought about it. Not heavily implied. But there were moments when he expected her to do more, say something specific. She failed his small quizzes because she was so wrapped up in her own problems and trying to tread carefully.

Fuck. Man, fuck.

There was a drawn-out silence as everyone processed the…new…information. The handprint Bramble marked into the table still smoldered.

Davos cleared his throat. In his clipped brogue, he said, “Pardon my rudeness, but I’d like to talk about what exactly happened with the Lady Melisandre earlier today. I’m guessing it’s the original reason why we’re here, until Tormund gave such a… _revelation._ He didn’t see what Snow and I saw, though. Which was—shittingly insane, if I may say so myself.”

Bramble shook her head. Right. _That_ happened, too.

Best just get it over with.

“Alright.” She ate the rest of her bread and washed it down with a hefty gulp of tame ale. “So I’m from a world called Earth. Because, yes, there are in fact other worlds. Yours isn’t the only one. Specifically? I lived in Thunder Bay, Ontario, in a country called Canada. That’s where the accent is from. And you know what? It gets made fun of by the rest of the world as much as it does by you fucks here.

“My world is highly advanced compared to yours. Technologically, we live thousands of years in the future from where your world stands. You guys are still…probably in the Middle Ages. The Dark Ages. Little scientific and artistic progress, a lot of religious reliance, feudalism, and death because medicine and hygiene aren’t implemented.” Another swig of ale. Bramble felt herself diving off the deep end, but she could only continue falling. “You people literally have rivers of shit running through your streets. You don’t have running water. No _clean_ water. No technological innovation that would propel you into the next age. It’s just...this time in my world is considered one of the worst ages to live in. Like, guys, this is _really_ bad. You got epidemics and diseases that’ll make your skin fall off here with no curable antidotes, nor the drive to find any. I honestly wanted to kill myself the first time I had to shit in a pot with just a cloth to wipe with. And then have no soap to wash my hands! Fuck, it’s disgusting here.”

Davos coughed suggestively. Yeah, she’d better rein in the insulting.

Bramble leaned back and rubbed her face. “What else? Oh, yeah. We don’t have dragons or shit where I’m from. No magic. No _sorcery._ No undead. Just old stories that stem from man’s inability to face the sad and terrifying truth of his existence. Plus, dinosaurs. But I’ll get to them later. Oh—we also don’t have seasons that last years on end. _That’s_ weird. Like, it’s not scientifically possible, with the way the world ultimately rotates and stuff. So that probably attributes to magic, as well. Back where I live, I’ve seen…seventeen winters? Yeah, I came here when I was seventeen.”

“Seventeen?” Jon repeated softly. Bramble nodded once.

“One for each year of my life. Our seasons don’t work like yours. We get all four within a year—twelve months within that year. They each last a few months.”

“That sounds like madness,” Sansa whispered. A pale sheen cast over her face. Bramble felt sorry for her. Out of everyone, she got the worst punch to the gut with all this.

“Nah, not really. Winter comes, winter goes. Though I lived in a region where it lasted a little longer anyway because of its position in the hemisphere. But people can expect when a season will come.” Bramble then paused and scratched her nose. “Then again, with climate change, things were getting dicier. You see—uh, we have so many people in our world that’ve abused the environment on a global scale that it’s damaged the world. We have terrible natural disasters. Fires, hurricanes, droughts, floods. Those are just a few examples. But it’s kinda too late to do anything about it? So we just live our lives, waiting for our world to die.”

“And you say our world is shit?” Tormund huffed. Bramble gave him a flat stare.

“For the most part, we don’t have to worry about getting run through with swords on a daily basis. Or dying of a cough. There are almost eight billion people living in my world for a reason.”

Another, more stunned silence. Bramble made a face and rolled up her sleeves. She was hot and uncomfortable, making for another tangent.

“I never would have had to work at a brothel to survive in my world. I was…safe, there. I had goals. Attainable dreams. I’ve been to school, you know, for most of my life. And I was planning on attending more school once I graduated from my compulsory one.” Since when had her voice grown quiet and sad? “Now look where I am. Who I am. A living weapon.”

She forced herself to perk up. Another drink to wash away the dryness, the ache in her throat. “But! I’m _fantastic_ at mathematics. It was my best subject. So if you have any financial problems that you need help solving, come to me. I practically have all the knowledge of a maester. More, even, though I don’t want to oversell myself.”

Bramble gestured for them to direct more questions at her. “Come on. We’ve got all night. Throw stuff at me so I can answer. I’m a person from another world. You’ve got to have questions.”

“I’ve got one,” Davos immediately jumped in. He’d been waiting for a chance since the beginning. “In the vision—memory—thing—scape—what was that city we were in? The one with all the…” He moved a hand up and down. “Towers? A-and all the people and the food, speaking a strange language.”

She nodded, knowing what memory he was referencing. “That’s a city called Manila, in the Philippines. It’s where my mom’s from. They were speaking Tagalog. And it’s why I look the way I do. I don’t know how big my world is to yours, but it’s _pretty_ diverse because, well, there’s no major place that hasn’t been discovered. Earth is discovered, right? And since travel is so easy, we can visit a place on the other side of the world for a week and then be back home in less than twelve hours—depending on the layover,” Bramble added under breath as an afterthought. “But the towers you saw were just buildings. They’re pretty common structures for us. Those weren’t even that tall.”

“And do you speak that language?” Tormund asked.

“Yeah.”

He huffed a laugh. “That explains the strange tongue you were speaking to me when Karsi was hauling you up to your room. You probably don’t remember, you were so fucked up, but that explains it.”

Bramble had no recollection of ever doing that. But it was unsurprising. She really was fucked up.

Okay. Okay. This was getting…easier. A flow was emerging. A back and forth. Not an interrogation where she was imprisoned and tortured for information. Just questions being asked by friends—who still considered her a friend.

She’d get back to the fact that there was another person from _another world_ who liked to drop by later.

But for now…

For now, Bramble got to talk about her home. Something she hadn’t really done in three years.

It’s nice.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggle with writing aftermaths. But it's done! Meaning that I can hop back into the main storyline. Hope all of you had great holidays and take a respite from the normal stresses of the world. Or, at least this little chapter can give you a moment of peace.
> 
> (And for all of you who've come from my Dragon Age fanfic, you most likely know who that lady Tormund was talking about is. Because this is still a crackfic, after all.)


	30. Chapter 30

Bramble’s heart raced, for some odd reason. She tried brushing it off, but that only amplified it even worse. If she could punch it to get it to stop, she would.

Davos stood beside her in the courtyard. He shifted on his feet. “This is taking too damn long,” he commented gruffly, then tried adjusting the waistline of his trousers. Bramble gave him a sidelong look.

“Problem?” she inquired.

“These new pants are a little tight,” he said, then not-so-subtly leaned to the side in an attempt to stretch them out. Bramble wiped a smile off her mouth with the back of a hand, but he saw it anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh at the fucking fat man, won’t ya?”

“Just give it a little while,” Bramble advised. “It’ll loosen up. It’s just because it’s new.”

“Says the girl shaped like a banner pole.”

“Whoa, hey, that’s fucking rude.” She was grinning, though, and Bramble followed up with, “And besides, it’s a good thing I’m like this. That way, if Jon and I are walking in a crowd, people can find him because I’ll be the only one visible.”

Davos barked a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. You two are the same fucking height. It’s Lady Stark who everybody will know to look for.”

Bramble chuckled. “Yeah. True.”

Their banter ended when Winterfell’s gates creaked open. Bramble and Davos stood straight and watched as figures on horseback rode through. Lord Commander Edd took the front, Grenn flanked the right, Pyp flanked the left, and a brother named Allin took up the back. In the center of their caravan was Shireen Baratheon.

And bundled up in Shireen’s coat was Balerion the Orange Dread.

Stable hands came forward and took care of the Night’s Watch horses as the brothers and princess hopped of. Davos was the first to hug Shireen, and Bramble was the second. She breathed in Shireen’s hair and closed her eyes. Shireen was safe.

Balerion gave a scratchy, agitated meow upon being squished between Shireen and Bramble. She let go and petted the cat’s head. He closed his eyes and purred at her warm touch.

Ed and Pyp gave her quick embraces next. Then she was facing Grenn, who scratched the side of his face and couldn’t meet her in the eyes. Bramble didn’t have to look to know that everyone was watching to see what they were going to do. And, from the redness rising in his cheeks, Bramble could only imagine what Edd and Pyp had teased him about before arriving.

So she lightly punched Grenn in the chest. He broke out into a grin, and that was a sight Bramble wanted to see since leaving.

“Iven is going to show you to your room,” Bramble said, stepping back and gesturing to a nearby servant. “You’ll all have baths prepared and your clothes washed. Then Snow will see the Lord Commander for dinner.”

“You his little errand girl, now?” Edd smirked.

Bramble scowled.

“Ah, yep, there it is.” Pyp pointed at her face. Shireen snickered, and Bramble’s scowl deepened.

“I literally burned a hundred Bolton men alive. I’m not an errand girl.”

“Did you kill them with that face?”

She punched Pyp hard in the shoulder. He couldn’t duck away in time and yelped an “Ow!” Then he got laughed at by his brothers, which created a scowl of his own. Bramble unstrapped Shireen’s packs, slung them over her shoulder, and guided the princess to her room.

Davos followed behind, chuckling for a good while.

-

The meeting with Jon lasted a couple hours. Bramble, Davos, Tormund, Sansa, Brienne, and Maester Wolkan also attended. It was mostly about how much the Wall severely lacked any defense, and how they could use the Free Folk to man it. Bramble also gave her report on how the relocation of Free Folk clans and families has been going, since Jon still wanted her to spearhead it. They’ve been cooperative—for the most part. Bramble had to knock some heads of chieftains and particularly stubborn wildlings. But since she was already widely-accepted as their ally, they tended to listen to her.

Food was a concern, both for the Free Folk and for Northerners. The Boltons completely wrecked Winterfell’s finances, too, which put the Starks in a nasty pickle.

Bramble looked at the ledgers during the meeting. Like her dad, she saw the numbers as a language. They all made sense to her. Even though she wasn’t an expert in finances, it was just another form of math.

Everyone watched as Bramble absently rubbed her scar while she found three thousand gold tucked away in some unused fund. She then reallocated it to food storage and medicine. They initially protested medicine, but Bramble reminded them that there is a war coming. Soldiers and civilians would need it if they didn’t want disease to wipe everyone out before the dead could.

So, along with Free Folk living arrangement coordinator, Bramble became the unofficial master of coin for the North. _That_ was something.

There’d be an assembly with all the Northern houses, the Knights of the Vale, and Free Folk clan leaders in four days’ time. Bramble was almost certain what would happen there, but she opted to not tell Jon. He was stressed enough. He could savor these last few days before being named King of the North.

Once the meeting ended, Bramble made her way to Shireen’s room. The princess had made herself comfortable in her quarters and wore a fresh nightgown. Her hair was washed and hung clean around her shoulders.

Balerion looked even more at home, perched roundly on the decent-sized bed. For a feral, starving cat at Castle Black, he’d come a long way. And grew a few sizes, no thanks to his new owner.

“I’m happy to see you again,” Shireen smiled after they parted from their embrace. “I didn’t want to go to the Targaryen.”

“But she has dragons!” Bramble mock-exclaimed, stretching out on the bed and petting the cat. “Balerion can meet his family!”

He _murped._

Shireen laughed and joined the two of them on the bed. “I’d much prefer to be with you.” She paused, mischief glinting in her brown eyes. “Though, I think dear Grenn would much prefer to be with you, as well.”

“Whoa. Hey. You’re too young to be saying stuff like that.”

“I’m fifteen! I’m practically a woman!”

“No you’re not.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “after all the talk I heard at Castle Black, I know much more about what men want to do with women.”

Bramble was going to knock those three idiots’ heads together. “Believe me, Shireen. They don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”

“Well. I know what _Grenn_ was talking about.” Shireen was only emboldened by their conversation. She grinned cheekily. “He just wants to _hold you_ and _kiss_ you.” After a moment, she added, “Then he got made fun of by Edd and Pyp and shut up. But the way his eyes lit up whenever we spoke about you was _adorable.”_

Bramble’s cheeks grew hot. “Tell me, princess,” she spoke slowly. “Have you ever been tickled?”

“Not since I was a little girl—”

Shireen’s sentence cut off with a shriek as Bramble launched onto her, fingers digging into her sides. Balerion, disrupted by the outburst, huffed and jumped off the bed. Shireen flailed and kicked in an attempt to escape Bramble’s grasp, but her struggle was weak because of the laughter.

Bramble couldn’t stop laughing, either, and eventually she lost her grip because it distracted her too much. She fell back onto the bed, giggles fading. They sounded so strange. Bramble hadn’t laughed like that since arriving here.

It really is funny, though. After so much time, after so much heartache and grief and sorrow, she can laugh. Should she even be able to? With everything that has and will happen? Is it alright to laugh?

It has to be. Otherwise this world isn’t worth redeeming.

And for Shireen alone, who grinned and rolled on the bed, Bramble would save this place for her. So she could live in a world where it’s okay to laugh. Where there’s joy and a warm sky.

-

It wasn’t a far walk to Bramble’s own room. The fireplace burned low on specific orders because Bramble didn’t need its warmth. She lit a few extra candles with a finger. The most recent ledger books were wide open on her table, and she was actually excited to flip through the pages with her grubby little fingers.

But the rather timid knock on the door was what she’d been waiting for.

Bramble took a breath and glanced in the mirror. She definitely looked cleaner, even if her clothing style hadn’t changed much. Her hair still hung loose and tucked behind both ears.

And the little stone necklace gifted to her sat hot against her skin.

She opened the door with a nervous hand. A smile darted on her lips, however, when she saw Grenn waiting on the other side.

He smiled back. “Oh, good—thought I’d be knocking on the wrong door for a second.” Grenn’s confession made his smile widen, and Bramble’s beating heart calmed at its sight.

“Come on in,” she said, stepping back and tipping her head to the room. After half a moment of hesitation, Grenn entered. The door closed behind him.

They were again alone. Bramble hadn’t seen Grenn since their arrival in the courtyard earlier today.

“Ah,” he winced, exaggeratedly rubbing his arms. “It’s bloody cold in here!”

“I’ve got a fire of my own to keep me cozy,” Bramble said. She tapped her chest, and Grenn’s eyes went to the stone settled in the center of it. His face grew warm in the firelight. “And besides, it’s not my fault you’re not dressed for the weather.”

While Grenn still had on his black trousers and shirt, he had been stripped of any other clothing and leather to be cleaned. He and his simple garb, too, looked fresh and free of grime, and his beard was more trimmed.

Bramble liked it.

“Oi, that’s not my fault. I got practically robbed of everything the moment I stepped in. But I got a bath, though. That was nice.”

“Castle Black has baths, Grenn,” Bramble deadpanned. He sat down in a chair at the table and folded his arms.

“I know. But you look like a twat if you use it.”

She rolled her eyes and seated herself as well. “I used to wonder why those baths were so empty when I used it. But honestly it makes sense why nobody ever realized I was a girl.”

Grenn grinned at Bramble’s comment, but it faded as he looked about the room. “I…can’t really believe it. Being here. Staying in a lord’s castle. Taking a bath in my very own room. Never thought I’d be here.”

Bramble’s mouth twisted. He was just a farm boy in Westeros. Farm boys didn’t get to stay in castles. Farm boys died for the men in castles. And the Night’s Watch died for farm boys and men in castles alike.

Fire crackled in the silence. Bramble leaned over and pressed her lips to Grenn’s, who quickly pulled her onto his lap. His hands, calloused and gentle, rose up under her shirt and brushed bare skin. The stone dug into Bramble’s chest the firmer she pressed herself against him.

Grenn may not ever live to stay in a castle again. But at least…at least for tonight, he wouldn’t spend his night in one alone.

They didn’t talk about broken vows. The Night’s Watch was already splintering and adapting to the oncoming threat. Grenn and Bramble’s affair would slip through cracks of ice. And right now, with the dead preparing to rip the world from them, there was never a better time to be reminded of how they were the living. Of why sharing parts of themselves, all of themselves, could be so good.

Bramble and Grenn wound up on her bed, unclothed and entwined. He was heavy and shaking against her, even as the kisses deepened and quickened pace. But Bramble felt his heart thudding against her chest, and before she could pull away, he did.

Eyes flickering away, Grenn muttered. “Listen, Bramb. I—I’m not the best, yeah? Only been with one girl my whole life. And, uh, I d-definitely didn’t feel this way with her like I do with you.”

She let out a little breath and cupped Grenn’s cheek so his gaze turned back to her. The other hand softly moved up and down his muscled back. “I’ve been with…a lot of men. A lot of men I never wanted to be with. But you? I just want to be with you. That’s what matters.”

Grenn laughed once. He twined fingers through Bramble’s short hair. “Guess if anything, you know a few tricks, eh?”

“Oh, hon, I know _plenty_ of tricks,” Bramble said with a smirk. “You probably wouldn’t be able to handle any of them, though.”

His anxiety faded with more laughter. It was a first for Bramble, being comfortable in bed. The boys she had sex with on Earth lasted ten awkward seconds with a fair amount of pain. The men that paid for her body in Westeros wanted a service and nothing more.

But this? This was right. Rough and tender hands, small shivers, occasional laughter between kisses.

Because Grenn made Bramble happy. And since that was hard enough to grasp in this freezing world, she held him tighter against her heated skin. To find this, to feel this…it made being stranded in Westeros worthwhile.

Whatever happened, whatever cold grave they’d be buried in or blaze of fire that turned them to ash, they’d have this night, and maybe, _hopefully, hopefully,_ other nights like this between all the horror and fear. Nights of calm and passion, of slow whispers and firelight.

The window _did_ have to get cracked a little, though. Bramble was a hot body. But it meant Grenn had something to keep him warm as he curled his large body to fit the curve of hers. Bramble intertwined her fingers with his and kept it close to her chest as she drifted off, the echo of his heartbeat substantially slower than it had at the beginning of their time together thrumming on her back. Earlier, those same fingers brushed the fresh scars on Bramble’s back. It reminded them of how close they were to death, and how far they each had to go before they could let it finally claim them.

But, as Grenn closed his eyes, head filled with Bramble’s sweet and smoky scent, he realized he hadn’t been this warm in a very long time.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but definitely sweet. Bramb gets a little bit of happiness.


	31. Chapter 31

The two spent most of the morning in Bramble’s room. After breakfast and baths, they reluctantly left the comfort of a bed and each other to tend to business.

Bramble took Shireen with her to a financial meeting with Sansa and Maester Wolkan. There was an intense and extensive overhaul of monetary dispensation. Shireen kept along with her keen mind. Edd, Jon, and Pyp joined at one point, but Bramble was too immersed in rearranging the numbers to really give them her full attention.

By late afternoon, a couple hours before it got too dark outside, Bramble, Shireen, Jon, Tormund, and the Crows took up a familiar and welcomed practice.

 Shireen blocked consecutive blows with the two small swords in her hands. “Fightin’ like a Free Folk,” Tormund beamed from the sidelines.

“Fix your footing, princess,” Edd called. Not a moment later, Shireen had her feet repositioned so Bramble couldn’t knock her off-balance. She no longer wore a dress for practice; instead, Shireen wore thick trousers with a warm, knee-length skirt that opened in the front for movability. Her fitted coat fastened with toggles in the front. The whole outfit had hues of light gray and charcoal. On the breast of the coat, in small, black stitching, was the head of a stag. It wasn’t Robert Baratheon’s sigil, nor her father’s adapted sigil, but it was Baratheon. Shireen would not lose her lineage just yet.

Sansa, Brienne, and Podrick came to watch as well in the fading light. Shireen had improved even more since Bramble left Winterfell, meaning she probably bullied Grenn, Edd, and some other Crows into sword fighting with her—despite Bramble’s explicit instructions for her to stay out of the courtyard.

She couldn’t help but remember sword fighting with Olly.

Bramble would live with the pain of his memory for the rest of her days. She just wished…that she could have told him that she was sorry. And that he was loved.

-

Grenn spent one last night in Bramble’s room. He’d be leaving early tomorrow morning, and who knew when they’d see each other again. Bramble wasn’t sure where she would be going from this point on. Jon, sure, but herself?

She might die before they reunited. He might die.

So Bramble held onto Grenn long after he’d fallen asleep, her face pressed against his sturdy back with both an arm and a leg draped over him. She refused to cry. There was no point.

Instead, her mind drifted to long-gone fantasies. Taking Grenn to meet her parents, driving places, going to concerts, showing him _home._ Mom and Dad would love him. She wondered if he’d be able to handle Filipino cuisine. Probably not. Westerosi food was just dense and heavy. No flavor whatsoever.

Her thumb traced circles on Grenn’s skin, and she smiled a little. Dad would take him out to the backyard and show him proper grilling etiquette while he stood there in his khaki shorts and New Balance sneakers. Mom, always the extrovert, would keep the conversation going between everyone. There’d be no lulls.

Bramble closed her eyes. _“I would take you to the movies,”_ she whispered in Tagalog. _“I think you’d like the superhero ones. You could try soda and Snickers. Pizza. Tacos. We could go camping down by the Bay, and I’d roast us some marshmallows. You’d love plumbing. Who wouldn’t? Showers are great, and so are toilets and washing machines.”_

She kissed Grenn’s back. _“We’d go to the Philippines. I’d show you the beaches. They’re clear and white, and I think you’d suffocate in the humidity for a bit, but it gets better after a while. Oh, then we’d go to Hawaii. Finish what was started. The beaches there are warm, too, and we’d drink out of coconuts and do whatever it is tourists do. You’d sunburn like my dad. I’d get dark like my mom. But we’d lay out on that sand and be happy.”_

Grenn made a sleepy noise and rolled over. “Mm,” he grunted, and that deep sound made her smile. “You talkin’ different? Or am I just dreaming?”

His eyes stayed closed. Bramble tugged on Grenn’s thick beard. “I thought you were out,” she whispered.

“Yeah, no, the Night’s Watch made me a light sleeper. Gotta wake up in case, you know, it’s the end of the world. Which it is, really.”

Bramble smiled a little more. “I was just…talking a little bit.”

“Mm. Was it good stuff?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

“Will you teach me?”

One eye finally opened, blue and sleepy and gentle. Bramble kissed him on the lips, and when she drew back, she said, _“Uwak.”_

 _“Uwak.”_ The pronunciation, while slow, wasn’t too bad. “What’s that mean?”

“Crow.”

“Crow? Oi, that’s right fucking funny, yeah?” Grenn opened the other eye. “What’s the word for ‘fuck?’”

“Fuck.”

“Guess I can basically speak two languages already, then.”

Bramble laughed low in her throat. “You’re brilliant.”

“Ah, you’re brilliant, too, I s’pose.” Grenn wrapped Bramble up in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Brilliant Bramb.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say that she was going to miss him.

As Grenn fell back asleep, Bramble did, indeed, let a few tears soak into the pillow. Just this once.

-

The Night’s Watch left. Quick, meaningful goodbyes, a few sad smiles, ignoring the heavy ache in Bramble’s chest. She watched them leave the courtyard with Shireen and Jon.

Then…then it was over.

“You’ll see him again, I’m sure,” Shireen said quietly in the clamor of the castle’s work. She grabbed Bramble’s hand and gave it a squeeze. All Bramble could do was offer a stiff smile.

She got back to work. Running over ledgers, estimating finances, and deciding how to appropriate funds and goods to both the Free Folk and the Northerners with Sansa. The Lady of Winterfell always mentioned how she wasn’t smart to catch on with all the numbers and calculations, but her words contradicted her mind. If Sansa didn’t have a thousand other things to worry about, she could probably run the books instead of Bramble.

When Shireen wasn’t watching and learning, she was reading. Winterfell didn’t have a large library, but it _did_ have books she hadn’t consumed, yet. Balerion sat next to her on the table, paws tucked under his girth.

“He looks like a bread loaf,” Bramble commented, taking a break to go bother the cat.

Sansa, surprisingly, snorted out a laugh. “A _bread loaf?”_ she repeated through that rare, beautiful smile of hers. Bramble didn’t draw attention to Sansa’s genuine display of amusement and poked at Balerion’s side. He _murped,_ and his tail began to twitch back and forth.

“Doesn’t he, though?” Bramble ran two fingers down his spine, eliciting the cat motor. “Balerion the Bread Loaf. That’s what we should call him.”

Sansa covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. It wasn’t exactly that funny to Bramble, but the fact that her Earth-originated comment produced such a reaction made it hilarious.

Bramble went to say something else about Balerion, but there was a knock on the door, followed by Maester Wolkan entering. “Uh, excuse me, my ladies,” he spoke with a quick bow. “But Lord Baelish is here to see you.”

All warmth vanished from the room. Sansa instantly retreated to her guarded self that the cruel world and cruel people like Petyr Baelish had shaped her into. She lost her brightness Bramble got a spectacular glimpse of just because of a cat joke.

“Send him in.”

Maester Wolkan withdrew, and in his place came a smaller man with peppered black hair and cunning eyes. A silver mockingbird was pinned to his chest, and despite the cold climate, he still dressed like a southerner, though the colors were muted and dark.

In just an instant, Bramble hated him more than anyone.

“Lady Stark,” he spoke with a small, fluid bow.

“Lord Baelish.”

He shifted his gaze to Bramble. “Lady Bramble. I must say, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“I’d hardly call it a pleasure,” Bramble snapped before she could stop herself. Baelish, however, took it in stride and smiled.

“In these circumstances? I cannot blame you.” His eyes went to Shireen, whose expression turned as stony as her marred greyscale. “Ah, Princess Baratheon. I served your uncle for many years. Your father was a respectable man.”

Whether Shireen picked up on Bramble’s own distrust or used her own instincts to see the bad man in front of her, she tilted her chin and coolly said, “My father hated you. He said you were a snake.”

Sansa didn’t betray any emotion. Baelish merely bowed once more and said in his smooth voice, “The Great Game is merciless. Unfortunately, decisions must be made. Some do not take them well.”

Shireen stayed silent.

Baelish turned back to Sansa. “I’ve come to perhaps offer aid in the world of finances. The Vale can offer monetary assistance. We are allies with the North, and with winter here, I do believe we can mutually benefit with each other’s help.”

“Thank you, Lord Baelish.” Sansa gestured to the ledgers sprawled out on the table, complete with Bramble’s scribbles on extra pieces of parchment. “Though I doubt we’ll require your…assistance…with such things, you may review.”

“Ah. Much appreciated, my lady.”

_If Baelish bows one more **fucking** time—_

He bowed to Sansa, then started making his way to the table.

Bramble cut him off. “You’re not needed here.”

The room grew warm again, and a bead of sweat broke out on Baelish’s forehead with the abrupt rise in temperature. He cleared his throat. “I apologize if I’ve somehow offended you, Lady Bramble—”

“Oh, yeah, bud, you fucking have. Get the fuck outta here.” Bramble’s Ontario accent thickened with her rage.

Sansa just watched from her desk, blue eyes darting between the two.

“My lady—”

She picked him up by the collar of his stupid doublet and hauled Baelish to the door. His feet scraped against the floorboards, but he wasn’t able to get his footing. Wire-thin tendrils of death wound around polished leather boots. Bramble yanked the door open, tossed the small man out against the wall—where he hit it with a grimace—and pointed a finger at him. “Come near us again, and I’ll burn your fucking dick off.”

For extra effect, Bramble ignited her hand. It pleased her beyond measure to see the genuine shock on Baelish’s stupid face, because he was _definitely_ more awful than the show ever portrayed in his appearance alone.

The middle, fire-engulfed finger raised a second before she slammed the door shut.

Bramble took a breath, turned, and tried to return to a normal expression—but failed.

Sansa’s cool gaze quelled the rising flames in Bramble’s chest. Then she went back to writing letters and responses. “He’s not going to forgive you for that.”

“Good.” With a huff, Bramble went and sat back down in front of her ledgers. “He’s not going to be around much longer, anyway. I’m not worried about what he could do to me.”

This time, Sansa snapped her head back up. “What?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bramble pursed her lips in an attempt to get her words in order. “Death is coming for dear Petyr Baelish.”

Sansa closed her eyes for a second, struggling to get her head wrapped around the notion. “N-no. That can’t be possible. It’s…Petyr Baelish. He plans to outlive us all.”

“Well. Guess he’s planned wrong, then.” Bramble returned to writing her financial summary that she’d give to both Jon and Sansa at the end of the day. “The only way I’ve seen Death disappear is if I’ve intervened. And I’m not gonna intervene with him.”

Instead of pressing Bramble further with questions, Sansa retreated into a tangible silence that she didn’t want to disturb too soon. That little piece of information Bramble impulsively gave left the Lady of Winterfell left her with a lot to think about.

Shireen, however, said to Bramble, “I want to do that to stupid men when I’m older.” Her smile was a glimpse into the future of a woman who would do great things because she didn’t need permission from her male counterparts to do it.

“You will, princess,” Bramble muttered with a wry smile of her own. It tugged on her scar. “We can’t leave it to the men to create a better world, after all. Look at where we are now because of them.”

The glint in Shireen’s eyes grew, and she straightened herself before returning to her reading.

-

“You can’t expect the Knights of the Vale to side with _wildling invaders!”_

Bramble kept her head tucked down and body hunched so she wouldn’t draw attention away from the convening. That already happened when she walked into the hall at the beginning. They already heard the tales, the stories of how Jon Snow had a conjurer, a witch, a woman who razed the Bolton army with her flames. Nobody spoke to her; the men were too distrustful, too fearful of the foreigner with fire. Only Lady Mormont gave Bramble an acknowledging nod.

She sat next to Davos and Shireen, and the three of them listened with keen ears as the talks went on.

“We didn’t invade,” Tormund reminded with a spark of impatience. “We were invited.”

Lord Royce didn’t even look at him. “Not. By. Me.” He sat down, and a spring of murmurs ensued.

“Ripe sons of bitches,” Davos mumbled under his breath. Bramble gave a soft snort of agreement.

Jon stood to address everyone with full intent. Sansa sat beside him, maintaining her distant and demure posture until it was the right time to speak her opinion. “The Free Folk, the Northerners, and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won.” His brown eyes swept across the hall.  “My father used to say we find our true friends on the battlefield.”

Another lord—Bramble couldn’t remember his name—rose to his feet before Jon could finish. “The Boltons are defeated. The war is over! Winter is come, and if the maesters are right it’ll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home, and wait out the coming storms.”

“The war is not over.”

Jon’s heavy tone brought a stillness over the chamber. For an instant, she thought she could feel a freezing hand gripping her throat. Bramble shifted a little in her seat.

“And I promise you, friend, the true enemy won’t wait out the storm. He brings the storm.”

As the lord who spoke hesitantly sat down, the hall devolved into clamor. Bramble caught bits and pieces of what they were saying. It couldn’t be true. The dead? Winter will kill them all if they don’t do something. What could they do? It’s impossible. But the tales! Just stories. No, not stories.

Bramble leaned over a little bit to catch Tormund’s reaction. He sat there with the other Free Folk in attendance, shaking his head in bitter disbelief. Karsi whispered something in his ear, and he just shrugged.

“This is getting nowhere,” Bramble said to Davos. He grunted in agreement.

“Aye. Best tell ‘em to shut the fuck up.”

Before he could stand and tell the Northern lords just that, a little, dark-haired, solemn figure beat him to it.

Bramble smiled a fraction. This was it. Fucking Lyanna Mormont. Right on. If anybody could get these bastards in line, it was her, harder and stronger than any lord in the hall.

She called all the men out on their bullshit. Their cowardice. Their broken loyalties. The room full of arguing and stubbornness was reduced to meekly turned gazes and bowed heads all from the words of a child wiser than them.

Sansa wore a faint smile as she listened. Jon remained unaware as to what was coming next.

“But House Mormont remembers. The North remembers! We know no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark.”

Jon’s dark brown eyes sharpened onto Lady Mormont. His shoulders stiffened, and Bramble wished she could have prepared him. But knowing about his future calling most likely would have done more damage than good. Bramble already had a hard enough time holding the information herself.

So she continued to watch.

“I don’t care that he’s a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins!” Lyanna locked her gaze with Jon. “He’s my king, from this day until his last day.”

Tension—excited tension—made its way through the hall. After Lyanna sat back down, offering Jon an acknowledging almost-smile, he took a moment to look to Bramble. Though his expression remained firm and unafraid, it was his anxious eyes that sought help. Reassurance. Support.

She gave him the slightest of nods. Well. Jon knew now. He probably had an inkling that it was coming, anyway.

The other lords joined in with Lady Mormont’s statement, seeking forgiveness and renewing loyalty. Bramble found herself leaning on the edge of her seat. To watch this as a show was one thing; to watch it— _feel it—_ happening right in front of her claimed her entire heart and soul. Bramble became part of the rising hope, and as each lord bent their knee with their swords pointed down in front of them, she found herself starting to smile.

“The King in the North! King in the North! King in the North!”

Bramble, Davos, and Shireen got to their feet with everyone in the hall, their own swords raised up to the ceiling. She chanted the phrase, over and over, and even though Sansa stayed seated and solemn, she wouldn’t let herself lose this parcel of pride.

Jon rose to meet the mantle, the title, the person he was going to be.

He rose as the King in the North.

-

Bramble made the trek down to the red-leaf tree alone.

She was being stupid, obviously. Nothing good would come of touching an ancient monument to the Old Gods. But Bramble’s curiosity superseded her logic. She could get answers about why she was here. Maybe more. Maybe less. She wouldn’t know until she did it.

The weirwood’s leaves were stark against a snowy canvas. Its trunk was wide and set, and some of the lowest, thickest branches nearly touched the ground before curving upward. The face carved into the weirwood was crude in nature, but something about it triggered an instinct in Bramble that made her…nervous. Magic similar to the Wall rolled off and hit her in waves.

Red sap still leaked from the face, despite the wear of thousands of years. The wound to the tree should have healed, but instead it was _part_ of it.

Bramble stared at the face. Eventually, a knee found its way to the snow-covered ground. Her breath came out in soft puffs of steam. This was where all the Starks had prayed for thousands of years. This was where Ned Stark came to seek solace and guidance.

And this was where Bramble knelt, only half a meter away from an Old God.

“I, uh, I’m not sure what I’m doing,” she spoke. Her voice sounded different for some reason. Perhaps speaking out loud to something by herself did that. “I’m…not from here. Maybe you’re already aware. I’m here, and I possess _abilities_ that nobody should. I don’t know where they came from or who gave them to me. So—so I was, uh, wondering if you could show me? Something? Fuck, I’m not really good at this.”

The fire flared in Bramble, and she gritted her teeth to fight its effect. “I’m just—I’m already _angry_ so much of the time. And—and this fire inside me makes it worse. But I think I can…do good.” She sighed and lifted her gaze to the Old God’s face, noting the etches in its bark, the darkness underneath its whitish surface.

Part of Bramble felt like she should say more. But all her words were lost to each passing second staring at the weirwood. The leaves were rustled by a soft wind that, while it wasn’t warm, wasn’t frigid.

In almost a trance, Bramble reached a hand out. The pads of her fingers pressed against the ancient wood.

Nothing happened.

Then—

Bramble got _ripped_ from her body.

Fire and ice consumed her, each battling for possession. She sank under water, drowning, thrashing, grasping for the quickly fading surface. A hand plunged through the darkness to save her, but its fist closed around emptiness as Bramble got dragged further down. Her lungs filled with water—

A woman stood before her, violet eyes piercing and white hair gleaming. She spoke soundless words to Bramble before gesturing to an emerging figure. It was a young man, dark-skinned and grinning. He, too, talked to her without any noise. Ice then formed across his cheeks, and the grin snarled into a mask of death and vengeance. He latched onto her throat, and the cold once again tried to gain dominance over the fire.

Bramble shoved her hand onto the man’s chest and burned him alive. She couldn’t hear the screams.

An army of the dead marched through the destroyed Wall. Bramble saw them approaching—and walked with them from behind.

Red leaves of the weirwood.

Shifting dragon scales.

Obsidian.

Golden hair.

The Iron Throne.

Slamming a sword into a chest.

Consuming ice.

Consuming fire.

Consuming death.

_Light._

Bramble. Staring at herself. Fire flickering across her birthmark.

She disappeared and was replaced by others. Jon, Sansa, Davos, Shireen. Tormund, Karsi, Mag Mar, Wun Wun. Grenn, Pyp, Edd. Faces she didn’t recognize but _knew_ who they were.

They vanished.

A three-eyed raven peered at Bramble. It opened its beak, and a boy’s voice whispered to her.

_They have found you._

-

“…Bramble! Bramble!”

The first thing she sensed was the cold snow against her cheek, then the blood in her nose. Bramble cracked her eyes open, vision blurred.

Red leaves of the weirwood sheltered her from the view of the gray sky. Vivid auburn hair hung down, brushing against her bare hands.

Sansa came into focus, her blue eyes filled with worry and fright. “Are you alright?” She had knelt next to Bramble and cupped her face. A thumb attempted to brush away a trail of blood, but it instead smeared it across her discolored cheek. “Bramble? Are you alright?”

Bramble’s gaze shifted past Sansa’s shoulder. Her body locked.

A shadowed, half-formed figure towered over them. No eyes, no mouth. Nothing but a vacuum of darkness. Two more appeared beside it, and they stretched their elongated, inhuman appendages out to Bramble. The fire screeched in frenzy, instantly shattering the ice in Bramble’s veins that seemed to paralyze her.

She yanked Sansa down to the ground with one hand, and with the other blasted the shadows with a spray of flame. Sansa screamed as heat seared her skin, and Bramble was _so sorry,_ but she couldn’t see these monstrous creations like Bramble.

When the fire released, leaving patches of dying orange and red spattered in the snow, Bramble rushed to her feet. Her chest heaved, and she wildly searched the area for any more figures. Nothing stood out against the white. Bramble’s gaze continued to the tree line a few hundred meters off, where she spotted a leaning shadow curled behind one of the pines.

Bramble clenched her fists and let out a hoarse yell. She twisted clumps of short black hair, pulling on them until there was a fair amount of pain. “Fuck! Shit! Fuck!”

Not them. Not again.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bramble wouldn't put up with Baelish's crap, so why pretend?


End file.
